


Clouds On The Horizon

by Diana_Prallon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Albion Royalty, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awesome Morgana, BAMF Merlin, BAMF Morgana, Canon Era, Drama, Ensemble Cast, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Golden Age, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Reveal, Magic Revealed, Politics, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Royalty, Slow Burn, Timelines, dress porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 05:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15965942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana_Prallon/pseuds/Diana_Prallon
Summary: The Golden Age has arrived.It's been three years since King Arthur Pendragon legalised magic once again in Camelot. Side by side, magical and non-magical folk have worked to rebuilt the land that was torn in the war against magic just as the King and his sister try to heal the rift between themselves. In times of peace, Albions prospers.Prosperity, however, brings a new threat to the land, one that Camelot cannot face without the aid of its allies.  Meanwhile, Arthur and Merlin have to figure out how to live with each other now that there are no more secrets between them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd like to thank the wonderful ACBB mods for making this feast happen, and for being so kind, patient and understanding. You guys rock.
> 
> Then, I must thank @moonflower999 for being the best of the cheerleaders and making me believe in this story. It is not what we first discussed, but it would be nothing without your support. The same goes for my ever wonderful, faithful, BFF and Beta @Dark_K. Whatever mistakes remain here are my own fault, for keeping messing with things.
> 
> Last but not least, I want to thank my artist, Kate, for her work. It was great to be able to do this together, and I hope you'll grace the fandom for a long time!
> 
> Last but not least... Merlin is not mine, unfortunately, or the actors would have been chained down and forced to record years and years of fanfic, but I digress.

 

 

 

**Midsummer Season, 1 Year Before** **Camlann**

 

 

 

The dark, heavy clouds amassing in the horizon were not common in Camelot at this time of the year, but they suited Merlin’s mood perfectly. He breathed deeply, allowing the smell of incoming rain to fill his nostrils, the electric tingle of the oncoming storm tickle something undefinable inside of him — that part that made the universe come apart under the touch of his mind, a whole other type of energy, at once completely different and utterly similar to the power of the bolts — but no, he wouldn’t even think of magic.

It was one of those moments he wished he didn’t have it.

Merlin let go of the weather in his mind, trying to focus on something different, something that wouldn’t nurture the treasonous bits inside of him. Underneath his legs, the mare that had been his mount for the best part of the last three years moved surely, as if she couldn’t be bothered by the ethical dilemmas of her rider (in reality, Merlin knew she thought he was a fool, the very same way he knew that the worst of the rain wouldn’t come before they arrived at Annis’ castle, and it did not help him a bit). Aura was a good mount, the best he ever had, if a little judgemental. He could still remember the day Arthur had given her to him.

He honestly wished he couldn’t.

Once Gaius had told some tale or another of a hero whose enemy could only be defeated by keeping one’s mind blank and he had thought it sounded both impossible and as a reward for stupidity. Now, he wished he had learnt the trick of keeping one’s mind void of thoughts. It seemed like the world around him was determined to try and tease his magic from where he had kept it leashed in the last few weeks, and his own mind was a dangerous labyrinth that he better not enter.

His lungs filled with air, and he pushed it out, willing his brain into silence. He let the reigns go slack, and Aura’s pace slowed an infinitesimal bit. For a moment, Merlin could feel the bliss of not knowing anything — no past, no present, no magic; to just _be_.

Leon’s worried face as his horse came next to Merlin’s broke the spell. The knight said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes. The servant tried to look away, but it was useless. Now that he had been reminded of the others, he could pretty much feel the texture of their thoughts, the taste of their feelings, the way Leon’s unspoken question was reflected in the minds of the whole group.

Not that there were many of them, but anything past three could be a crowd when Merlin was in such a mood. It had been years since he had last allowed himself to wallow that way, but it didn’t feel like an overreaction when life as he had known was done. It was like walking without a skin, and each of their concerns became a pin, prickling his insides and almost causing him to explode in a festival of tears and pain.

The only person he could not feel at all was Arthur — the King rode in the front of the group and did not seem to have noticed or cared about his absence. His back was straight, and as he explained something or another to the knight next to him, his voice sounded cool, controlled, though Merlin could not hear the words. It was almost bizarre, not to be able to feel his thoughts and share his moods after years of increasing closeness, and it hurt more than anything else.

Merlin wished the rain would hurry up and come, for at least the battering of water against their faces would hide the welling tears in his eyes. He blinked them away, for he would not give Arthur the satisfaction of seeing him cry like a girl.

Once, as a young prince, Arthur had told him no man was worth his tears. He had, then, with some fake cheers and secrets in his heart, teased the blond man saying he certainly wasn’t. It had been a lie then as much as it was now, but no one needed to know that. He felt more than saw Leon’s eyebrow rising, and he knew before the knight spoke what he was about to say.

“Merlin…”

“Leave it,” he said, a dark warning in his voice. But Leon knew only Merlin, the cleaner of pots, the sweeper of stables, the fool in a neckerchief and feared him not.

“If you could only say what…” the man insisted, speaking quietly, trying to keep the conversation only between them.

“There’s nothing to say,” Merlin retorted, and Leon huffed.

“That’s a lie and you know it!” The knight’s voice was hot with emotion, and it made Merlin turn to look at him.

Leon had always been calm and spoken evenly about anything, from the crops to massacres, and he hadn’t expected such an outburst from him. They had never been as close as Merlin was to Gwaine or how he had once been close to Lancelot, but Merlin had always liked and respected the older knight. Just now he realised how much he had missed his steadying influence in the years he had been away.

A blush spread in the older man’s cheeks, as if he, too, was aware of how unusual his reaction had been, and Merlin found in himself a measure of his usual good humour.

“The girls are rubbing off on you, aren’t they?” He teased, and Leon snorted and shook his head.

“Don’t you try and change the subject,” he said pointedly. “Something is obviously wrong between you and Arthur and you’re both acting as if nothing…”

“ _Nothing happened_ ,” Merlin insisted, and he could almost hear Leon grinding his teeth over the sound of the horses’ steps.

“Yeah, that’s what he said too,” Leon rolled his eyes, as if the two of them were being especially obnoxious (which, to be fair, they probably were). “One day you two may even find out that pretending things aren’t there do not make them disappear.”

It was Merlin’s turn to snort, because just now, Leon sounded exactly like Morgana. Whether it was for the best or the worst, he could not say. For a while, they were in silence, until Leon tried again.

“If you won’t tell me what is wrong between you two, tell me this: where, exactly, are we going?”

The words were like a stab to his heart. There had been other hiccups during the almost ten years he and Arthur knew each other, a number of arguments, fights or whatever else, but never before had Merlin been so completely in the dark as to what was happening. Even in the first few months as King, when Arthur had sworn he did not need or want friends, Merlin had been able to gauge where his heart lay and what were his plans… But now he had nothing to show his friend but a shrug.

“I know we will get to Carleon’s castle this evening,” he temporised, but Leon made a face.

“Yes, a five-year-old with no sense of direction could tell me that!” Leon snapped, and Merlin grinned. He _was_ being affected by his charge, whether he admitted it or not. “But _why_ are we…?”

“All he told me was to pack for a fortnight,” Merlin confessed, his throat thick with an emotion he could not name, something between pain and shame and loneliness all mixed together.

Leon glanced from Merlin to Arthur’s back with a look as if the king had personally offended him by not confiding to his manservant where they were going. If he could have done it without becoming a mess of emotions, Merlin would have giggled at the show of loyalty. Instead, he looked ahead, trying once again to escape his emotions and thoughts, only to be hit by the image of Arthur’s straight-backed stance, keeping everyone away, keeping _Merlin_ away.

What good was loyalty when it didn’t come from the one person it mattered the most?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819003500/in/dateposted-public/)

**Beltane Season, 4 Years** **Before** **Camlann**

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612681/in/dateposted-public/)

There was something tragic in seeing someone you once adored reduced to _this_. Leon felt his heart constrict in pain and pity as he watched the weak, almost broken body of the witch that had once been the Lady Morgana. Her skin had almost a translucent look to it, but now her paleness was less ivory and more sickness. Dark, greenish bruises spread through her head and cheeks, the ones on her shoulders and arms just half-hidden by the torn lace in her dress. Her once soft hair was now a tangle and, had he been bolder, Leon would have brushed it away from her face.

“We should kill her,” Gwaine spit, his emotions running high as ever. _He_ had never known Morgana but as a troublemaker, the destroyer of their home. Leon, on the other hand, remembered just too well the wilful and charming little girl that had come to live in Camelot around the same time he had become a squire.

“She’s the king’s sister,” he reminded them, his voice grave.

“Twice a traitor, then,” the other man continued. “What she has done to her own family…”

Once again, Leon wondered what would have happened to Arthur’s knights, had Uther ever managed to reign again. There was no way the likes of Gwaine would have kept silent in the face of what the late king thought were _reasonable_ decisions, and they wouldn’t have endured in hopes of a brighter day. In so many ways, he was not unlike the woman he was now condemning. She, too, had chaffed under the restrains that were alien to her morals, and they were all still paying the price for Uther’s obstinacy in vanquishing magic.

The rest of the knights looked from one man to the other, as if unsure of what to do. Gwaine was dearly loved, and Leon could well see why he spoke thus, but his loyalty was not to Gwaine, it was to the King, and he _knew_ what Arthur would have wanted, regardless of the pain it would cause. He took off his own cape before giving his orders.

“Get some branches. We’ll need to make a litter to carry her back to the castle,” Leon turned, looking down at Gwaine’s mutinous look and shook his head minutely. “If anyone’s judging her, it won’t be me or you.”

“You’ll just break his heart,” the other knight muttered, moving away, and it gave Leon a pause. He had not imagined that _Gwaine_ would have cared as much for Arthur’s emotions, but there was still a lot that he did not know about his friends, it seemed.

Deep down, though, Leon was an optimist. He couldn’t help but hope that the siblings would, against all odds, find some common ground. He had known Arthur for years, he had watched him grown up from a spoiled little boy into a conscious knight, then a dedicated prince and finally a King whose budding wisdom gave them all hope. If only things could be mended between him and Morgana, Leon was sure that he would have a long, memorable reign, an era of peace and prosperity not only for Camelot, but all of Albion.

But maybe he just had heard far too many storied from Merlin, maybe the glint of belief and adoration that the manservant had in his eyes whenever he spoke of Arthur’s kingship was contagious after all. Then again, it was not every day one saw a sword being pulled from a rock. Pure strength would never have done it, but only a “right” that went far beyond bloodlines.

It was the will of destiny. The wish of the very earth. Magic.

Leon was no longer scared of naming it thus — magic. It did not matter all the terrible things he had heard growing up, there was something fundamentally natural about it — magic. It was, of course, fantastic, but it was also the most ordinary thing in the world. Just one more way for the universe to be ordained. He had tasted it in the chalice of the druids, felt it as life swept back into his body, breathed it in as it healed him, and while he could certainly fear it and the terrible usages it could be put, he did not think magic in itself was the enemy.

Of course, making Arthur see things his way was a whole matter entirely. He watched as the men built the litter, and used his own cape to wrap around the woman on the ground. He picked up the leaves stuck in her hair and tried to avoid the dark, bloody gash on her belly. It was no longer bleeding, though he could see no obvious way for it to be healed. Maybe she had used her own magic to heal herself, but if so, it wouldn’t have done her much good if they hadn’t found her. Her skin was icy to the touch, and her pulse was weak and erratic. Still, he had seen men come back from similar conditions under Gaius dedicated care, and Leon did not believe the old man would do less than his best to keep her alive, even with all the suffering she had put him through.

The march back to the castle had been far too similar to a funeral march to his taste, and there was nothing for him to do but to hope for the best. Arthur’s face had been anguished at the state of his sister, and Gwen had given herself completely to the task of nursing her back to health. For weeks, Morgana had hovered between life and death, as torn as the castle she had invaded. As the masons and servants worked in bringing the place back into shape, Gaius and Gwen tried to bring her back as well.

(Leon could only wonder at Gwen’s kindness in serving her again after so much pain, but the old man seemed like someone trying to atone for his sins — if he did so in the memory of Uther or for Morgana herself, he could only guess).

For once in her life, Morgana had conquered something slowly. She was obviously pained and bitter, and even without coming into her old rooms he could hear her lashing out against whatever destiny had made her into her brother’s virtual prisoner. He had not ordered her to be confined to her rooms (Gwaine’s opinion on this was quite loud, and the two of them sneered at each other like angry cats whenever their paths crossed), but she could not leave the castle.

What really kept her bound were the shining intricate iron shackles, so delicate and elaborate that they could be disguised as ordinary jewellery. The bracelets encircled her now too-thin wrists, locking in her magic. It did not make her harmless — Leon doubted she could ever be truly harmless, with her ability to charm people into following her and her swordcraft; spellcasting, as much as she would have liked to use, was just another weapon in her arsenal. It made Leon almost sad that it seemed to be all she could think about.

Her bitterness dripped in her voice, and it seemed to burn everyone that came near, except Arthur and Gwen. The king would visit daily, and none of Morgana’s recriminations nor her anger could push him away. Leon would remain through most of these sessions in the same place he had spent the best part of his days since bringing Morgana back to the castle: standing guard outside her door. If he was there to protect her from others or the rest of Camelot from her, he could not say. He tried not to hear as the shrieking faded into furious shouting, and from it turned into insistent exclamations. He was surprised, too, at how Arthur allowed her to rage and holler against his very existence, only to listen to the most sensible accusations and demands underneath it.

(Though, of course, he _was_ Uther’s child, and _had_ been raised under a similar diet of impossible expectations and rash reprisals, it was incredible that they hadn’t recognised before how much like the King Morgana was. And, unlike much of Uther’s demands in the last few years of his life, Morgana’s points _did_ make sense. Even if Merlin kept on calling him a _clotpole_ , Leon knew Arthur was a fair and thoughtful man, ready to admit his mistakes).

Merlin, too, had stayed outside through most of these hours, fretting in front of Morgana’s door — as if he feared she would attack Arthur and believed that he, alone, could prevent it. Still, as the yelling became quiet conversation, neither men could truly hear what was being said. Whatever secrets the two half-siblings shared, Leon would never be privy to.

He was not ashamed to say he was shocked when Arthur called the whole populace into the castle’s courtyard, named Morgana his heir, lifted the ban on magic and condemned her to a decade of imprisonment on another castle, all in full view of the whole of Camelot.

(He was still petty enough to be glad that Merlin seemed even more gobsmacked at this turn of events than he was).

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529617/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Season, 1 Year** **Before** **Camlann**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

The round towers of Carleon’s castle were a sight for sore eyes, Arthur thought, as they finally reached the place under the increasing rain. Like some mother hen, he looked around, making a mental count of every knight and servant under his care, from the oldest to the youngest. It looked to him like a sorry parade under the dark weather, and the party that came to welcome him in the courtyard seemed equally dispirited by the unexpected rain.

Queen Annis seemed to have grown much older since he had first met her, but time had also taken the grief away from her eyes, and she gazed at Arthur with something approaching kindness — not that kindness or other motherly qualities were something Arthur would connect with the sovereign. The woman was cunning and shrewd, and observant as well. She wouldn’t need to be convinced to the dangers of the incoming ships — even if all of Camelot and Mercia stood between her and the invaders. Annis would naturally grasp the seriousness of the threat and move against it. This, more than anything else, was the reason why he had elected to come here before anywhere else.

The reports had started trickling in from Elmet the previous year: hundreds of ships coming from across the sea, towards Albion. They had mostly landed at Anglia and, he supposed, Kent — the two kingdoms that had been given to Saxons back in Bruta’s time as a price for peace. A number of them, however, had landed in Mercia, aiming at the coastal villages and fortresses, dominating quickly just to settle down. _That_ was unusual and worrisome — attacks from the so called Vikings weren’t uncommon on the area, but those were quick raids for easy profit. What had happened the previous summer was something else altogether.

“Well met, King Arthur,” Annis said, a small smile in her face. “What storm have you brought to my doorstep this time?”

He smiled back at her, amused despite the seriousness of the situation.

“I am not so vain as to imagine I can control the weather,” the king answered, trying to ignore the painful silence echoing in him as no insolent man snorted next to him or said _“you could have fooled me!”_ under his breath. Arthur pretended even to himself that he didn’t long to elbow his best friend at being teased in such a ceremonious occasion, ignoring Annis’ raised eyebrow, as if she noticed herself what was missing, looking above his shoulder to the spot where Merlin could usually be found for a beat before answering him.

“It would be a fine trick, if you could call rain at your will,” her voice had a tinge of curiosity in it. “And even more fantastic if the weather were the only problem that followed you here.” There was nothing he could answer to _this_ , and she did not give him time to, turning back and gesturing to someone behind herself. “I believe you haven’t met my son yet — King Arthur, this is Tudwal ap Anwn, the future ruler of Carleon.”

Tudwal was a thin boy of eight or nine years old, with the same golden hair as his mother. There was something of old Carleon in his eyes and chin, though he lacked the arrogance of his forefather. The king liked him immediately — the boy seemed thoughtful and self-conscious, Annis child through and through. At this age, Arthur had pretended to a confidence he did not have, bullying others to make up for his uncertainty and trying far too hard to win Uther’s approval. He hadn’t grown out of this mix between dutiful son and pretentious man until Merlin had blundered into his life.

But thinking about Merlin was like a stab in his heart, so deep and painful that he had to fight not to show it in his face. His manservant had always been loud, but his absence was the loudest sound in Arthur’s life yet.

“It’s an honour to meet you,” he offered the boy his hand, and Tudwal’s eyes shone at being treated like an adult.

“The honour is all mine, Your Majesty!” He answered in a high, excited voice. “Everyone says you are the greatest warrior in Albion!”

There was something of a hero-worship in his voice, excitement breaking through the carefully contained countenance he had show until then. Arthur could not help but barking a laugh at this.

(“Maybe I know something they don’t…” The voice wobbled through time into Arthur’s brain, and he could almost see the golden day instead of the overcast one.

“Which is?” he had asked, so confident, so sure that it would never change.

“You know… That you’re a cabbage head.” Merlin had grinned at him, brighter than the sun, and Arthur had known, then, he was lucky.

He had been happy then — so happy — but the memory of past laughter turned his current one bitter in his throat, and he stopped abruptly).

“Learn this early, Tudwal,” he said, clapping the boy’s shoulder as they turned to walk into the castle. “People exaggerate — and lie.”

“Even about a king?” the boy pipped in, and Arthur couldn’t help the sour imitation of a smile that graced his face.

“ _Specially_ to a King.”

Through the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin flinch, and the small, petty, side of him was glad of it, even if another part of him wanted nothing more than to apologise. He mentally shook himself out of it — there was real business to attend to. He would have to mope at another time.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819259150/in/dateposted-public/)


	2. Chapter 2

 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/43719995295/in/dateposted-public/)

**Early Lughnasad Season, 4 Years** **Before** **Camlann**

Morgana didn’t stand up when her brother walked inside. She knew she should have — he was, after all, the King, and had been generous and gracious towards her, but she would not pretend that nothing had happened between them in the last few years. Obedience had never been her strongest quality, and she wasn’t going to pretend for his sake. She kept her back straight against the hard wooden chair, as queenly as she could.

There would be no more apologies.

“Morgana,” Arthur’s voice was soft, as it often was these days. She knew that tone, the one he used when he wanted to please her, and she did not like it.

“Welcome, dear brother,” she said, not hiding her bitterness. “Come to check on your new heir?” Morgana taunted, leaning her head to the side. “Or maybe on your royal prisoner?”

Arthur shook his head a bit before sitting across her, on the chair he usually took in their daily conversations. He seemed so amused that her anger spiked, but just as it grew, it faded. She could not have expected more from him, and in his place, she wouldn’t have been so merciful. But, of course, Arthur was a better man than either she or Uther could have hoped for, as much as it hurt her pride to admit it.

She looked away from him and to the hem of her blue dress. It felt weird to be wearing it again, for it seemed to belong to another person. The shiny material was so completely different from the roughness of her life since Morgause had taken her away from Camelot, and the delicate overdress would be torn if she did any sudden movement. It was a dress for a court lady, to be paraded around and do no real work, and even before she knew about her magic, it had been uncomfortable to her. The golden embroidery in the bosom matched the heavy golden belt that encircled her waist, contrasting with the burnished colour in her iron shackles, the only jewellery she wore. She missed the bracelet her sister had given her, the one link she had with her inheritance, with her past, with her mother, even if she could now recognise that it had been as much of a manacle as Arthur’s welcome home gift.

“You know I can’t just let you go,” the king said, his eyes sad. “As much as I want nothing more than to make amends between us.”

“Yes,” she admitted, looking from her wrists to his face. “Though you have no idea how terrible I feel — deaf and dumb, really.”

It almost hurt her to confess it, but her brother could never truly understand, no one could. Just someone who felt magic cursing through their veins would know how it was to have it thus confined, to feel it move inside, warming her from the inside and fizzling out before reaching her fingers, like a candle left on the windowsill after the rain started. Her temper was nothing if not the smoke that came out of the quenched flame. She _knew_ , in her head, why he had done what he had done, but her heart refused to accept defeat graciously. Even when conceding, she had to fight.

“I _am_ sorry,” Arthur answered, and he did feel sorry and something else — _curious_ , maybe? But, no, Arthur could never be curious about magic, Uther had made sure of it. Even his concession as to allowing people with magic to _be_ had been tentative, and in the letter of the law, wrongdoing with magic was still punished more harshly than when cunning alone was used. No, Arthur was not _curious_. Weary, perhaps. “I wish there was some other way.”

“You could do something _really radical_ and _trust_ me,” Morgana spit, though she knew she was being unreasonable. The expression in his face as he raised his eyebrow at her seemed to gently remind her that she _had_ invaded his kingdom three times in as many years, and caused an incredible amount of death and destruction. That was because he didn’t even know her role in their father’s demise — but, no, there was no need to touch _that_ wound.

“It takes time,” he answered, simply, as if trust could be rebuilt after all that had happened.

Maybe it could. Maybe he _truly_ believed it would.

Arthur certainly thought she was a much better person than she was.

“What do you want?” she asked, tired and burdened by all his _hopes_ and _goodness_. Heavens, it was exhausting.

Arthur stood up, turning his back to her, and that was how she knew it was personal — whatever it was, he was ashamed of it. It made her gleeful just to watch him pace, trying to find a way to ask her whatever he wanted to ask. Knowing he needed her for something, that he cared what she thought was a small victory, but it was all the triumph she could have these days, and she savoured it.

“In a week, we will be leaving in a progress through Camelot, headed south. From there, we go to Gawant, to attend Princess Elena’s wedding.”

Morgana didn’t bother hiding her mean vein at this news.

“I’m surprised that _anyone_ agreed to marry _that_ girl. Then again, a crown may be enough of a reason, right?” She sent her brother a look that made it clear that she didn’t think him a much better option in the marriage market, but Arthur seemed to ignore her comment, knowing that whatever her biting comments, she wouldn’t lower herself as to repeat them during the occasion, lest someone thought she was jealous.

That was the _last_ thing she needed — some man getting into his head fancy ideas such as that she needed to be married.

Married! Bah!

Arthur, as oblivious to her thoughts as to anything else, kept on speaking.

“Two days after the ceremony, you’ll proceed to Tintagel Castle,” he continued, and she was surprised.

“Are you sending me to Dumonia?” she could barely believe her ears.

“Do you oppose?” Arthur asked, as if she really had to power to deny him.

Dumonia — she hadn’t been in the country since she was ten years old and Gorlois had died fighting for a King that would not back him up. She had been born at the old castle of Tintagel, and deep in her bones she could still hear the sound of the waves against the seashore, smell the spray of salty water that would spread over the lowest of the yards. As a small child, she had yelled in glee to the sea coming to invade the fortress and colour her days. Morgana’s heart clenched, longing for it with all she was — not the place as much as the magic of childhood, when things hadn’t been so complicated and she could see rainbows in flying water drops.

“I never thought I would see it again,” she muttered almost against her will. “I thought you’d keep me under your thumb for the next decade!”

The young man shrugged, not looking at her.

“It’s a convenient location,” he started, and seeing the place again in her adult mind, she knew Tintagel would make for an impregnable prison to her — to whose safety, she could not say. “There hasn’t been a royal presence in Dumonia for a generation.”

“Are they giving you trouble?” Morgana asked, truly interested. Camelot had been Dumonia’s overlords for generations, in spite of all the territories between them, and the relationship hadn’t always been easy.

“Not in the slightest,” Arthur answered, shaking his head. “But it _is_ the traditional seat for Camelot’s heir — if my father hadn’t been so worried, I would have been sent there ages ago.”

Morgana snorted. It was almost an empty honour, that of being Arthur’s heir — it was unlikely that she would ever come to the throne, unless he fell in battle. And, despite everything, she could not wish it on him. Soon enough, she knew, he would marry Gwen and, in a few years, there would be a bunch of dark haired brats running through the castle and one of them would take the title and her crown.

“Uther was never one for diplomacy anyway,” she said, and he nodded. In spite of the many treaties he had brokered, their father was a man that liked to prove himself with force rather than parleying.

“No, no one ever accused him of being a peacemaker,” Arthur agreed, looking around once again. “I trust you will not object to me naming Sir Leon the Marshal of your household.”

“Household?” she repeated, disbelieving. “My, my, we’re getting formal here…”

“I think it’s important to set you up properly,” he was apologising again, and she couldn’t help but laugh. It was silly.

“No, I do not object to Leon,” she answered — in fact, from all of those knights who had always been clearly loyal to _Arthur_ first and Uther only latter, Leon was her favourite. It made sense to name him — unlike the others, Leon was noble. His family was wealthy, but not so wealthy that could provide much for a third son, and the office of Marshal to the heir was a fair reward for loyal service. It did not hurt that he was easy on the eyes and had a tendency to blush whenever she was impertinent towards him. Leon would do nicely. “Not that it would matter if I did.”

“I would try to find someone more to your taste,” he protested, and she snorted.

“Sure — Sir Gwaine is more to my taste.”

“You and Gwaine would drive each other insane and commit murder before you reached the border.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me!” Morgana allowed her frustration to colour her words once more. “Better than being paraded as a victory trophy.”

“Not that,” Arthur shook his head, and knelt on the floor near her chair. “Never that. You’re my sister — the only family I’ve got. I would never humiliate you like that.”

“No,” she agreed, still angry. “Only like this.”

She touched her bracelets, and he flinched, looking away from them.

“Give me time,” he asked again, before looking her full in the face. “Meanwhile, I have a favour to ask — a personal favour.”

“I’m not in a position to deny you anything,” she pointed out, and she felt his deep breath, felt how he tried to gather courage. Well, whatever it was, it was bound to be good.

“I’d like you to accept the naming of Gwen as your Chief Lady in Waiting.”

Morgana sucked in her breath. Such positions were, when existing, given to wives and daughters of nobles. Had she been in truth Gorlois’ daughter, it was one she would be expected to hold to Arthur’s future queen. To give it to a commoner, a servant, would probably rile up a lot of people — to give it to a woman he had publicly promised to marry would make sense as a sign that, in spite of her exile earlier that year, she was once again back in favour and soon to be their queen.

“Very well — you can name your sweetheart to my household, and I’ll give you two a few months to prepare people to the upcoming marriage.”

Arthur’s face was a mask of anguish at that, and, for the first time, Morgana allowed herself to look at him from beyond her blind resentment at Gwen having her crown. What she saw was not a man in love, not a man planning his wedding — it was a man who wasn’t sure of what to do with himself.

“That’s not… I don’t think I’m…” He looked up at her, his conflict clear in his face.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “There’s someone else.”

“What?” Arthur asked, confused. “No,” he shook his head in denial. “No, of course not, don’t be silly. There’s no one else — I couldn’t… No.”

Morgana looked at him as if she wasn’t sure of what he meant — because she really couldn’t understand it. For years Arthur had acted as if he could barely wait for Uther to die before he asked Gwen’s hand in marriage, and now that he had the chance… She wondered if she had completely ruined their relationship (and that, too, was another thing she had yet to tell him, how she roused Lancelot from the dead only to break his heart — but, no, _Gwen_ was the one that should forgive her for it — or not. It would never have worked if she hadn’t loved him still — loved him first).

“You _couldn’t_?” she asked, because there was nothing she could say.

Arthur shrugged, looking away, and she could feel his confusion, how hard it was for him to put into words what exactly made him say he wanted her to take Gwen away.

“I love Guinevere,” he confided in her, his voice low. “She’s, I think, the only woman I’ve ever loved, maybe the only one I’ll love,” his baby blue eyes looked into hers, vulnerable and unsure. “Well, like _that_ ,” he added, pushing her away and, for once, she felt like beaming at him. “I just can’t _marry_ her.”

Morgana had never wanted Arthur to marry Gwen — she could just about force it down her throat now, but worse than the idea of him choosing Gwen, was the idea that he might _not_. Gwen was far, far better than what Arthur deserved, even if he wasn’t so damn good. Gwen was as close to perfect as she had ever known, and she would make a wonderful Queen. It felt incredible to Morgana that Arthur could honestly find fault with her or worse, find someone better suited to Camelot’s needs.

“Why the hell not?” She asked, offended in the name of her old friend, even if she doubted they could ever be friends again.

Arthur looked at her, and now she could see it again: the arrogant boy he had been back when — well, when she hadn’t known about her magic. No, that was not right, even before her magic had rebelled against its restrains, he had been changing. There had been something else, if she could only put her finger on it…

“I will not marry someone to whom I’m the second choice!” he declared with something resembling a pout. “I can forgive her for her indiscretion — and don’t you think I don’t know you had something to do with it — but if she it wasn’t in her heart…” He sighed, looking away. “I asked Gaius, you know — nothing could have created love where it didn’t exist, not when she was touching me and kissing me all along. No, whatever feelings made Guinevere go into Lancelot’s arms, it came from _her_ alone.”

“Lancelot is dead,” she reminded him bleakly, and Arthur’s face was bitter.

“Yes,” he agreed, with a nod. “But would she have even said yes, if I asked her _before_ he died?”

Morgana couldn’t answer that question, no more than Arthur could. She doubted even Gwen could give a definite answer on it. The priestess could see how the doubts must be eating him from the inside. Lancelot had been a good man, far too good, and almost an impossible standard to reach, a shadow growing ever larger as one tried to measure themselves against it. She shook her head, sending it all away from her.

“She loves you. Whatever she felt for _him_ , she loves _you_.”

“That is not enough,” Arthur replied, shaking his head. “Not in a love match. I could marry a woman that I liked, but did not expect to love me above all else, but Gwen… What I wanted, what I thought I had… It was something else.”

Her brother was, clearly, a romantic. As much as their father had been, in his own way, and if his broken heart made him make stupid decisions, at least it didn’t lead him into a roaring rampage of revenge.

There was a knock on the door a split of a second before it opened. Morgana did not need to look to know who it was. Only one person would ever dare not to wait for a reply before butting in — Arthur had never really put him in his place or taught him any modicum amount of respect. More than anyone else, Merlin could do as he pleased, and Arthur would accept it.

More than anyone else.

She snapped around, looking between them as the manservant looked straight at his master, ignoring her completely.

“Sire, it is time.”

“I’ll be right there,” Arthur comforted him.

Merlin had not changed much, though his shoulders were larger and his jaw more defined. He was still tall and far too thin, all limbs and none of them friendly as he glanced sideways towards her. His look still gave her goosebumps, and she could feel her throat constricting in memory of the poison he once fed her. Merlin looked between them as if he wasn’t sure that leaving Arthur alone was a good idea at all, but there was a limit even to his boldness. The king’s eyes were soft, and everything came into place.

_Merlin_ had been what happened, it had always been _Merlin_. He was the one thing that had prompted Arthur into changing, into being a better man — not Uther’s demands, not Morgana’s prodding, not Gwen’s expectations or Lance and Leon’s good example. No, Merlin’s _trust_ had been the true cause behind his sudden blossoming into responsibility, into maturity.

Morgana almost laughed, then, because how _ironic_ was it that Arthur was letting go of Gwen on the grounds that he _wasn’t_ her first choice when, clearly, his heart had been taken long before he noticed the maid. She wondered if she should enlighten him about his own heart, but she also knew she wouldn’t do it. Some things one had to figure out for themselves.

“Very well,” she answered, lowering her head. “I’ll take Gwen as my maid of honour, _if_ and only _if_ she agrees. I will not take her away from her life for your comfort, Arthur.”

“No, you’re right,” he agreed, eagerly. “But I have a feeling she will say yes — it’s as hard for her to stay as it is for me to have her here.” Arthur gave her an odd look, then. “She may even be grateful for the chance to go away with you.”

Thinking of the many terrible things she had done to her former friend, Morgana snorted.

“Somehow I doubt it.”

“Don’t,” Arthur offered, a weird look in his face. “She’ll be glad to be by you side.”

His words kept rattling in her head as they said their goodbyes, and she could only wonder — and hope. Still, it was more than she dared to wish for, that Gwen would take her back in.

 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529277/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Season, 1 Year** **Before** **Camlann**

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

 

The great feasting hall in Carleon's castle was nothing like Camelot's. Instead of gleaming white walls, glass-covered windows and delicately sculpted portals and furniture, this keep showed the warrior spirit of the country's inhabitants in its architecture. The walls were made of rough stone, and there were only arrow slits gracing them. All the light in the room came from the candles floating in iron chandeliers, and two huge hearths in each side of the room kept it warm. Even through the small openings, it was notable that a ferocious storm was raging outside, the wind battered on the castle like a spoiled child looking for sweets. The lower slits had been covered with heavy tapestry, but the fury of the elements was enough to make them quiver in their place.

Such a perfect match to Merlin’s emotions in the last few weeks that he had wondered, only half in jest, if he had inadvertently summoned the storm.

From where he stood, he couldn’t feel the cold drafts. Although everything had changed, in moments such as these, it was as if _nothing_ had changed. The King and Queen Annis were but a step ahead of him, speaking in low tones while their parties blend in raucously. Merlin allowed his fingers to caress the handle of the flagon in his hands, wishing he, too, could drink some sweet wine. But, of course, he was _just a servant_ and servants did not drink wine during feasts, just served it to increasingly drunk nobles and warriors.

There was an unusual amount of alcohol being served, though knowing Queen Annis, this was not generosity as much as it was a way to make sure her conversation with Arthur remained a secret. There was nothing less likely to be noticed than words exchanged while others were drunk, and even empty rooms under lock and key wouldn’t be so private as a diversion. Arthur’s glass was still half-full, but as he recognised the more urgent tone in their voice, Merlin stepped ahead in order to listen in to them.

“The reports don’t surprise me — I don’t suppose you saw Asgorath?” Arthur shook his blond head, his hair gleaming under the candles, and Annis’ copper locks looked like living fire. “It’s one of our border villages — it was raided by Saxons. It started some months ago, but they haven’t killed many. They’re not raiding for gold or goods, it’s _people_ they’ve taken.”

The tone of Arthur’s voice was puzzled.

“Men taken from their homes wouldn’t make for a good army. They could never trust them with weapons. Why would they…”

“Not to fight,” Annis corrected, dark amusement in her face. “To plough the land.”

The two monarchs were silent for a second, but the look between them was serious. Arthur seemed to notice him for the first time. Merlin looked away and, pretending to be amused by one of Gwaine’s antics, laughed out loud. The king kept his eyes on the queen, speaking once again.

“They want slaves for their fields,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not an invasion.”

“No,” Annis agreed, her mouth a thin line. “They want to conquer the land.”

The idea was so terrible and so surprising that Merlin couldn’t hold a gasp. He could have imagined many things, but he had never had the feeling that the Saxons were organised enough, centralised enough to think of conquering Albion. As things were, the five kingdoms were in danger from their greed.

Even with all the noise, the queen heard his sound and turned sharply to look straight at him. Merlin could not pretend not to be looking, so he did the next best thing he could thing of: gave her his best dim-witted smile, hoping she would dismiss him, remembering the words Arthur had used to define him when they had met for the very first time. Her lips twisted into a smile that held no hint of humour as she spoke once again.

“Food and drink are well and good, but I think it’s time for some entertainment,” she announced loud enough for the people around them to hear. Her eyes searched for Merlin’s in something that was almost cruelty before she continued. “I’d love to see your fool perform. He must have considerable skills, given all his failings.”

Arthur looked from Annis to Merlin and, as their eyes met, they were in tune: shocked, surprised, a bit offended at the questioned loyalty. Then, something seemed to come back to Arthur’s mind, his eyes becoming opaque again as he answered.

“Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” the king rolled his eyes, and Merlin didn’t know if he wanted to cry or slap him. Arthur didn’t even look at him before giving his command. “You heard the Queen.”

Merlin was many things — a powerful warlock, a minor physician, a manservant; a friend, a traitor, a lover, a son — but there was one thing he was not, and he wasn’t shy about reminding Arthur of it.

“I’m not a fool!”

“A number of people would disagree,” Arthur answered, and Leon, next to him, laugh.

The traitor!

The whole situation made Merlin extremely annoyed with his king. It was not only that Annis was trying to get him away, but also how _humiliating_ it was to be made to perform. He had never liked crowds watching his movements, and Arthur knew it. A number of times he had accused him of being all thumbs or having two left feet, and now he was supposed to _perform_? It was so unfair, and agreeing with it was so _petty_ and to take advantage of such a situation was such an _Arthur_ thing to do when he didn’t get his way, that it seemed that everything else between them faded away and this alone remained.

Leaning down between the King and his knight, he looked at the man he had served for over a decade now.

“I don’t have any skills!” he enunciated each of the words, and Arthur gave him his best shit eating grin.

“I know that, but we can’t refuse her, can we?”

For a moment, all Merlin could do was stare, disbelieving. Then, Arthur was looking back, their eyes meeting and how hard it was to look away, to stop himself from grinning back at the king. It seemed like an eternity since he had last seen Arthur laugh, that they had even smiled together. Arthur’s eyes were hypnotising, and he felt himself drawn to the man as always. Since they first met — Arthur’s presence had pulled him in, kept him there, made him bold and reckless. Now, it was all he could do not to kiss the man-

The magic of the moment was gone as quickly as it started. There was no way it could be more than a dream and an ache. The light faded, too, from Arthur’s eyes, as if he had followed his thoughts, and the king seemed distant.

Just then Merlin noticed Leon had taken the silver pitcher from his hand.

Well, there was nothing he _could_ do but to comply. He shook his head, muttering a spell to himself, and picked up four eggs from the table. The whole company was watching him now, and he wondered _what_ would they do if he gave them a real show — if he used his talents to the full instead of as a crutch to perform silly tricks. It was one more of his indulgent fantasies and it’d never be more than that, so he just silenced the voice that kept telling him he was wasting his time and talent.

(“Magic should be used for good, not for idiotic tricks”, Gaius had told him after he had, for the second time in as many days, gotten into a fight with Arthur. Why he had accepted the challenge in the blond’s voice, he would never be able to explain, except that there was no denying Arthur — love or hate him, Merlin was drawn like a moth to a flame. It had felt good — to spar with words and magic versus might, adrenalin coursing in his veins as they moved together in a deadly dance, until his mentor’s judging eyes had made him stop. He had been so arrogant, sure that there was nothing in magic for him to master, sure that because he could do things without learning, that magic would never demand effort from him… He had complained, then, that if he couldn’t use magic, he would always be a nobody. Now, of course, he _was_ a nobody _because_ of magic).

The eggs flew under his command, four at a time, in perfect semi-circles, left hand to right in arches through the air. He heard the cheering from the men, and he couldn’t help but smile — these were simple people, glad to see something different, anything, and they were not to blame for the idiots that lorded over them. One by one, he made the eggs disappear, magicking them into place without anyone noticing, and once his hands were empty again, he bowed to the audience.

All the time he was allowing himself to be used as a distraction for the sake of Arthur’s politicking, he avoided the king’s too knowing eyes. After weeks — months — of keeping his magic under a closed lid, it seemed ready to go overboard, and the effort of not letting it run wild made his perspiration pool on his nape, making his neckerchief damp.

As he rose, he saw the Queen’s eyes glinting as she watched him, and he wondered if he had been caught — if she knew his secret. His body grew cold for a second in terror, the beads of sweat that had come from exercise feeling then like drops of ice. For a moment, he could not breathe, and then his memory caught up with him in a jolt even more painful than his terror had been.

If Arthur already knew, what worse shenanigans could she put him into because of it?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529407/in/dateposted-public/)

**Late Lughnasadh Season, 4 Years B. C.**

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There were far too many people in the room, that was Arthur’s first impression upon walking inside Gawant’s main feast hall. The throng of people parted for him and his party to come through, but the space was a mere illusion when the smell of hundreds of bodies mingled into something that would, in less exalted company, become a stench. The king scanned the place with his eyes for a second, noticing the finery of the ladies and the general regalia of the guests.

His eyes reached the table on the dais, and he felt his heart squeeze in distaste. All of his father’s old favourite rivals were there — Bayard and Alined, coming from Mercia and Elmet respectively. Olaf, naturally, coming from neighbouring Dyfed was there as well, and Arthur automatically flinched upon hearing Lady Vivian’s shrill voice as she spoke to her young brother, Olaf’s heir.

Essetir’s new king, Lot, was there too, though he looked as out of place as Arthur himself felt. He did not feel like there was a place for him there, those were Uther’s old friends and foes, people who would expect him to be exactly like his father. He wondered just how much grief he was going to get in the next few days over his decision to lift the ban on magic, but it wasn’t worth worrying about it — he had known, before he did it, that there would be opposition, and if other kings disagreed with him, well, they were welcome to do differently in their own domains.

Arthur squared his shoulders, readying himself to face whatever they threw his way, and Morgana stepped ahead to stand next to him. He was quietly grateful for her support, and when she smirked at him, he knew, for the first time in years, that it didn’t mean she wished him ill. He was equally grateful for the silent presence behind his left shoulder. Merlin might be an idiot, but he _was_ an idiot that had never abandoned or betrayed him, and that was, he had learnt, something to cherish. He wondered just how hard it was for his sister, who undoubtedly would be shunned by some of the people in the room, and who was still on uncertain ground with Gwen.

He reached for Morgana’s hand, tucking it into his elbow, and started to escort her to the dais. He could see the places that had been set for them, empty and waiting. Though their party had left Camelot early for the wedding, their trip ended up becoming a Royal Progress, as he couldn’t help himself from stopping by and listening to complains on the way. Uther had been a distant ruler, but Arthur didn’t think he could ever emulate him in that; it was his duty to serve his people to the best of his abilities, and this could not be done if he locked himself inside the castle. No, it was essential for him to go among them, listen to them, understand them better so he could do what was truly the best for Camelot, not only what he believed to be the best.

It did not mean that they could completely dictate policy — no. He had seen places where the population was scared of Morgana, or would complain that the ban on magic had been lifted. After the purge, people knew so little of magic, that they were perpetually scared of it being used against them. Still, for every person that had voiced their doubts about the wisdom of his decision, there was one that would thank him, for it meant their siblings, their children, their parents, or even themselves could live without a price on their heads.

And though Uther had done much to completely eliminate magic from Camelot, a generation was far too little to erase such a strong presence. Young people might be scared and angry, but there were still a number of those that remembered how things had been before Arthur was born, and they were ready to share their stories and appease those who doubted that changing the law was for the best.

Of course, it had been just a first step — Morgana had shouted herself hoarse about it when she read the full document, telling him that it was not enough. His sister hadn’t been shy in saying that it was no real equality if the same crime was punished in a harsher manner when committed with magic than without, but there were limits to how far Arthur was willing to go — at least for now. He knew too little about magic — and there weren’t nearly enough people around that knew enough — to properly measure the severity of the laws.

His main issue was, of course, that magic was a weapon that could be hidden so completely, that the victim would have no way of expecting violence. Not only that, but it didn’t need proximity to cause harm, and as a warrior, Arthur couldn’t help but to think it was the coward’s way to attack without being close enough that the attacker and his victim would be in equal risk.

Morgana’s voice cut through his musings in an annoyed manner.

“Oh-no-he-didn’t!” she hissed as she noticed where she was expected to seat. Arthur looked at the spot and couldn’t stop himself from smiling when he saw that Morgana was meant to sit by Vivian’s side.

“Now, be nice — don’t you two have a lot to catch up on?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, doing nothing to disguise her glare.

“I’m still creative enough to come up with half a dozen ways to commit murder even wearing these,” Morgana answered, touching her bracelet lightly.

Arthur couldn’t help but beam, this was the Morgana he remembered from — well, from before.

“Do you mean me or Vivian?”

“Both would be best,” she admitted, but her icy smile was perfectly in place as she reached her chair.

“Arthur!” Vivian shrieked upon seeing him, her whole face transforming from her usual haughty manner into something that could only be named lovesick as she jumped up to received him. His traitorous sister grinned, amused. “My dearest! I can’t believe how long they’ve kept us apart!”

The king had completely forgotten about their — episode. To this day, he couldn’t explain or understand what had prompted him to act as he did. Gaius had said something about Love Potions, and indeed he had no clear memory of his actions under the influence of it, it was as if the world had come to a halt as he went to sleep and just came back into action while Gwen kissed him.

But thinking of Gwen still left him with a hollow ache, especially when he was coming to witness a wedding. It would have been him getting married only last spring.

“Lady Vivian,” he bowed, forcing himself to think only of the present. “I trust you remember my sister, the Lady Morgana?”

Vivian barely glanced at his sister, battling her eyelashes at him.

“Of course, I would never forget anything about you!”

Arthur took a deep breath, and Morgana’s expression went from entertained to alarmed in a flash. There was a question in her eyes, but he could only shrug.

“Yes, well. She has been assigned as your dinner partner tonight. It’d please me greatly if you could — get to know one another.”

“Yes, my love, of course, my love!” the blond girl exclaimed, before taking a deep breath, as if getting ready to do something extremely difficult. “I won’t let you down, my love!”

Arthur looked from one woman to the other, knowing there was little he could do but nod.

“Be nice!” he admonished, unsure if he was talking to his sister or with Vivian, and both responded with something like contempt — well, as close to it as Vivian could manage in her state. He felt guilty that he had completely forgotten what had happened to her years before.

“I hoped she’d be better,” Merlin muttered, as if he could read Arthur’s thoughts. His manservant would sometimes know exactly what to say or do, though most of the time he was just a clumsy disaster. “After all these years…”

“Yes,” Arthur said, looking at Merlin as they walked to his spot. “Maybe I should ask Morgana to try and find a cure for it; it’s certainly magic, and no one should live like this. What do you think?”

Merlin shrugged, in the way he usually did when he thought something wasn’t the best idea but did not want to say so.

“Well, she can hardly get worse…” the manservant said, and Arthur nodded. It was the best thing he could do for her.

Arthur walked to the chair that had been saved for him, once again sorry that he had barely had to time to change before coming to the feast. His seat was between Alined and Annis, and at least he liked and respected Carleon’s Queen. She gave him a chilly smile as he approached, her eyes sweeping by both him and Merlin.

“King Arthur,” Alined’s voice was as oily as the hairs on his head. “So kind of you to join us. I was just telling Queen Annis here how sad you must be to see your former betrothed marrying someone else,” the man’s sneer was unmistakable. “But, of course, it may not be as bad as that since there are, what, four women or five women in here you have proposed to before?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin straighten himself up, as if Alined was attacking him. His manservant had always been protective, and right now, it bothered Arthur — he could fight his own battles.

“Oh, that’s being young,” the Queen answered, eyeing Merlin’s movement as well. “Sometimes, it’s hard to know your own heart.”

“There were three, not four or five,” he corrected the other king, before smiling tightly at Annis. “And, there were other things — duty and politics-”

“Oh, yes, I forgot princess Mithian isn’t here,” Alined nodded knowingly, and Arthur could’ve punched him. “I hear King Rodor refused to come since you were coming — even Gedref wasn't enough to make him forgive you for spurning his darling girl.”

Arthur ground his teeth against one another, _this_ was why his father had hated hosting such events.

“Yes, I can only hope he’ll come to see that it’s for the best,” he offered, fighting cynicism with honesty. “Mithian is a wonderful lady, and I would have made her a poor husband — I withdrew my suit _exactly_ because I knew where my heart was, not because I didn’t know where it lay.”

"Did you, now?” The queen gave him a smile so enigmatic that it would have filled Morgana with envy. “Very good, Arthur. Now let’s only hope that Princess Elena has been just as wise when she chose her groom.”

Though the conversation was soon turned towards more harmless topics, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if Annis knew something she did not want to share.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529617/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Season, 1 Year B. C.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Feasts always left Merlin feeling exhausted. Hours and hours on end standing up and serving drinks were not his idea of a relaxing evening, but it wasn't _that_ bad back when he and Arthur had used all opportunities to talk to each other. More than teasing or gossiping, as a servant Merlin was invisible and many times they had used feasts as opportunities to eavesdrop and learn this or that noble's intentions. 

Now, walking for the first time into the chambers that had been assigned to their use during their short stay at Carleon's former seat, Merlin thought he might as well be invisible. He had known, of course, that this castle wouldn't have the same sort of organisation as Camelot had, where they had quarters for servants next to their master's bedchamber, but he _was_ surprised at the absence of even a single object for his use. 

It was not the issue of the lack of furniture in itself. He had, before, been expected to sleep in a pallet on the foot of Arthur's bed, or even on the floor - which was nothing new to him, having grown up in Ealdor. It was not that the last decade, living in Camelot and having his own bed, had softened him, but that the absence of even bedding that he could use to make his own bed felt like a slight at Arthur, not only at himself. To refuse to acknowledge that he would have a manservant with him was to dismiss his royal status.

Except — Annis would never do it. She wouldn't mistreat Arthur like this deliberately, and he _had_ hidden himself as they arrived avoiding Arthur and his sharp remarks. They may truly have not expected him to be there. The king, of course, did not notice anything wrong at all in their sleeping arrangements, sitting in one of the armchairs before the fireplace. He didn’t even look at the room, just at his own feet as he started to negotiate to get his boots off.

Suddenly, it was just too much. The doubts, the questions, the uncertainty, the pointed looks, the plain _wrongness_ of everything. Merlin did not feel like himself, but, of course, he didn’t normally keep his magic under lock and key and Arthur didn’t normally ignore him. It was more than he could bear, along with the rumbling sounds of thunder, and he threw some of their luggage on the ground with a bang.

The noise made Arthur’s head snap up, something in his instance shifting automatically, his shoulders growing more tense as if he were expecting an attack. In seeing it had been only Merlin having a temper tantrum, he seemed to relax again. For some reason, this just made the warlock feel even more frustrated, and he broke the silence that seemed to be their natural state these days.

“Say what you will about servants in Camelot, but we would never be this careless,” he complained, trying to fill the void between them with empty chatter.

“I say nothing against the servants in Camelot,” Arthur replied, a smirk on his face. “It’s _your_ abysmal track record that seems to be the matter, the rest of them are great.”

“Yeah, well, you knew you should have kept George as your servant,” Merlin pointed out, not at all bothered by the usual jibe. “Now, even I wouldn’t go as far as this.”

“Very well,” Arthur conceded, raising his hand in a grand gesture. “I can see you won’t settle down until you say your piece, so you have one minute to complain about whatever they did.”

“I don’t need one minute,” Merlin started, only to be interrupted by Arthur.

“Forty-five seconds!”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Thirty seconds, Merlin…”

He shook his head, trying to block from his mind the time they had been visited by messengers from Benoic, who had brought as a gift a collection of hourglasses from the southern lands. They were beautiful and almost mysterious, nonsensical in Merlin’s perception, to try and capture time and confine it into such straight notions as minutes and hours, but Arthur had been fascinated by the idea and had used them until he could tell time by heart, counting his breath along with the coloured sand. In his mind’s eye, he could see his favourite hourglass now, the emerald green sand trickling and burying his words before they came out, until he had no time to say more than a sentence.

“There’s nowhere for me to sleep!”

Arthur’s impatience disappeared at this, and he looked around as if he could see the room for the first time. There was not much to see — a simple wardrobe that looked as old as Gaius at least, simple bed with no hangings, a pair of nightstands so short that they were inches smaller than the bed and with nothing on them as decoration. The place had one window with wooden shutters, which was a luxury considering the way the castle was built, and a single flower stood on a pot in the windowsill. The only real comfort of the room were the two armchairs facing the fire, its dark wood gleaming from polish, and clearly sturdy. Under them, a threadbare carpet covered the floor rushes, for there was no real flooring in the building. He tried to see the room through Arthur’s eyes, a man who had always been used to comfort when he wasn’t spending the night without a roof over his head, and decided if probably looked both rustic and cosy.

“Very observant,” he muttered, and Merlin huffed.

“You can mock me as much as you want, it isn’t you that…”

“Not you,” Arthur interrupted, looking him in the eye for once. “Annis — the little meddling wench!”

“What?” Merlin asked, completely confused at the comment. Or maybe he had read everything wrong, maybe he still wasn’t all that good at the political game and this _was_ some sort of jab from the queen, something that…

“There’s a place for you to sleep,” the king’s voice brought his mind to a halt, though he looked everywhere but at Merlin.

“What?” he repeated, knowing he sounded daft. “Where?”

Arthur eyed pointedly at the large, double bed that was the centrepiece of the room. There was no other way to interpret what he was implying, and Merlin felt his face burning in embarrassment. The fact that Arthur wouldn’t meet his eye did not help it, or that his body had made a definite twitch of interest at the mention of it. He did not know whether to be furious or ashamed at himself and at the Queen, and settled for exasperated.

“That’d be completely inappropriate,” Merlin cried out.

“Propriety be damned!” Arthur blurted out, his eyes piercing Merlin, his look scalding hot and wanting and everything he had longed for during a second before he seemed to deflate and looked away from the other man. It felt much like walking from the warmth of the sun to the coldness of the shade on a spring day — or better yet, autumn, for there was no real hope of the warmth returning. “What I mean to say is… Queen Annis is a very well-informed woman, it seems.”

The idea that Carleon’s Queen was privy to such intimate details of their lives and that she took for granted that Merlin would have a place in the king’s bed made everything worse. Or, maybe, worst of all was how much he longed to just do exactly what she supposed he would do, and lie next to the king.

“Not so well informed,” Merlin pointed out, and Arthur shrugged.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Silence hung heavy between them, the echoes of all the things they did not say — would not say — reverberating in the stone walls until Merlin thought they would deafen them both. Merlin couldn’t even look at Arthur, and the opposite was also true. Moments passed in oppressive quiet, before he spoke again.

“I’m not — I wouldn’t impose.”

Once again, the king shrugged, as if he hadn’t expected Merlin to do so. It was near a dismissal, and it hurt, but it seemed that everything that involved them was a continuous source of pain, and Merlin tried to let go of it.

“Can’t you…” He gestured with his fingers in the air, wiggling them in a very silly manner. “You know, summon something?”

Merlin sucked his breath, for it was the first time that Arthur had made any direct reference to the thing that lay between them. The forbidden word — magic — hang in the air as some living thing, and Merlin could only shake his head in disbelief.

“I’m not going to… How would I… How do you propose that I _summon_ some _bedding_ in here?”

“How would I know?” Arthur’s voice was accusing. “It’s hardly my area of speciality, isn’t it?”

Merlin felt his temper rising, and fought to quench it.

“It’s not that easy, you know?”

“No!” Arthur spit back, crossing his arms in a defensive stance. “I _don’t_ know!”

“Well, did you ever _want_ to?” it was Merlin’s turn to accuse, but the king was not one to give ground.

“It seems to me that _you_ decided I didn’t want to know — it seems to me you decided a whole lot of things without _asking_ me.”

“Oh, you’re one to say!” the warlock answered, and they were once again looking at each other, their anger simmering, and it was good to feel anything — anything at all — from Arthur even if it was rage and resentment. Anything was better than the void he had been in the last few weeks. “ _You_ think that pretending to accept things…”

“Pretend?” They were yelling now, but Merlin was past caring.

“Pretend!” He repeated, “Pretend for the sake of — I don’t know, Morgana…”

“You think I would _pretend_?” Arthur repeated, standing up, and suddenly he was once again empty of emotions. The impact of his absence staggered Merlin, and he lost his train of thought. Arthur stared into Merlin, disbelief in his eyes, and he shook his head.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced, his footfalls heavy on the room and he walked towards the bed.

“Fine!” Merlin answered, but all fight was gone from him. “Fine!” he muttered again, pulling their sleeping sacks from where they had been rolled and bundled to the trip.

His makeshift bed was damp and cold and miserable, and once again, Merlin could only wonder if they would ever manage to get past his many lies.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819259150/in/dateposted-public/)

 


	3. Chapter 3

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**Late Lughnasad Season, 4 Years** **Before** **Camlann**

 

Dancing with the bride was a tradition all over Albion, albeit not one that Arthur would expect Elena to take part in. Then again, the woman he had met the day before and had seen married earlier in the day bore very little similarity to the clumsy and untidy girl that he had been briefly engaged to over two years earlier. She looked much the same, if cleaner, and her eyes were kind when they met Arthur’s. It was clear that she had no hard feelings towards him. Indeed, if the way she looked at her groom was anything to go by, he had done her a great favour in deciding against their marriage.

“Princess Elena,” he said, lowering himself to kiss her hand. “Lord Uriens is a lucky man.”

Her smile was bright, even as she corrected him.

“It’s Queen, now, your majesty;” and Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. The marriage had been act of Godwyn’s long regency for his daughter and now she and her new husband would take Gawant’s throne. The coronation that had followed the marriage had been a much quicker affair than Arthur’s one — and much more joyous, as it wasn’t celebrated in the shadow of a parent’s death.

“Of course, pardon me,” the two of them took their places across each other in the group of dancers, and Arthur wondered if he would be able to escape dancing with Vivian. Morgana had left the festivities early, dedicated in her quest to find a cure for Vivian’s obsession.

For the first part of the dance, the two of them were silent; Arthur had had dance lessons as a child, but Camelot’s court under Uther had been no place for dancing. He was far more comfortable balancing himself to defend or attack with a sword than when doing the same with the music, so he needed to concentrate in order to accompany the steps. Elena, far from being the disaster he would once have guessed, looked graceful enough on her feet.

“You’re a fine dancer,” Arthur complimented, because it was true.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Elena answered, some of her old mischievousness showing in her grin. “Though one would expect you to be even better.”

“Ouch!” he said, amused. “That’s was sharp. Have you been talking to Morgana?”

Her laughter rang through the air, and it was a pleasure to hear it after the continuous tensions of too many monarchs under the same roof. Elena was not one for political meddling, and she had no use for disassembling or false compliments that were part of the trade.

“No — though I suppose she would have a lot to say about your imperfections. It’s just, well, it is good to find you are not perfect after all.”

“Perfect!” Arthur repeated, shocked. “Why would you think I’m perfect?”

Elena gave him a piercing look, as if she could see through his false humility, and knew far too well how he had once behaved, as if he were, indeed, a gift from the gods to mankind. It made him blush a little bit, but there was little he could do to change the past.

“Well, if you had heard my father talking you up when I first visited Camelot, you too would imagine yourself perfect.”

Arthur beamed at her, all things considered, he didn’t feel ashamed of what had happened then, regardless of Alined’s pointed remarks.

“Oh, it must have been a terrible shock to meet the real me.”

Elena shook her head, looking at him with a smile.

“Not at all — you were incredibly kind and gracious towards me even though I was a complete disaster. In fact, you tried far harder than you should have to, well, to make it work.”

Arthur looked at her, really looked, and found a woman that was wise beyond her years — or, perhaps, all women were. She was comfortable and sure of herself in a way he still didn’t feel, it was as if something was missing inside him to give him such a peace.

“I was sorry that it was not enough,” he answered, honestly. “I would have liked nothing more than to please my father and my heart at once.”

“It was for the best,” Elena said, her eyes roaming through the room until she found her new husband’s. “It made me think, really think, and understand what I needed to do in order to be truly happy — a man that would accept me for who I am, that would bring out the best in me, but not demand it. A man that would see _me_ , not my crown, and stand by me even if I didn’t have it.”

Not for the first time, Arthur wonder if he would ever know such marital bliss. It didn’t seem likely. After all that had happened, he doubted he could find anyone in the world that he could look at the way Elena was now looking at Uriens, as if the sight of him gave her strength and sustained her; and Uriens for his part looked at Elena as if she was the most precious thing in his whole world.

Arthur wondered if he would ever be able to inspire someone with so much fondness, so much trust, so much love. It seemed to him that he was always a failure, as much as he tried. He had spent most of his life trying to make his father proud, but he could never truly be the man Uther wanted him to be — he was far too soft for it. Even after his father was already dead, he had kept on trying, and almost ruined Camelot in the process.

It was to his heart that Morgana would appeal any time she disagreed with Uther about something, and it had been hard to say no to her as well, especially because although he tried, he couldn’t always agree with his father’s decisions. Morgana would always speak in favour of mercy, in favour of those who were vulnerable. She had been so kind, and that had made her transformation all the more baffling — though, now, he could almost understand the price she had paid for Uther’s prejudices. When he was younger, he had tried in turns to please Uther and Morgana in turns, managing to disappoint both. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for having left Morgana alone when she needed him the most, for not seeing what was happening to her; and he still argued his decisions with his father in his head.

Once he had thought that if only he kept trying hard enough, Guinevere would feel exactly like this about him. Deep down, he had always known how she felt about Lancelot, as he had always known he could not be as good as Lancelot was. He had tried, every day, and it had been a struggle. Seeing Gwen in Lancelot’s arms had broken his heart, but it didn’t feel nearly as surprising or as shocking as it should have been. In some ways, it was just _natural_. Though it had hurt his pride, and though sending her away had been painful, there had been something absolutely freeing in letting go of the impossible high standards he had tried to achieve only to be worthy of her.

“You’re very lucky,” Arthur said, almost against his will, and he wondered if he had drunk too much wine. “It’s not easy to find someone like that. And, of course, Uriens is the luckiest man in the five kingdoms if he can say the same.”

“Oh, I’m sure he can,” she smiled, not at Arthur, but at her husband on the other side of the room. “And I have you to thank for it all.”

“I did nothing,” Arthur insisted, because he felt he didn’t deserve the credit for her happiness. “I just — I just told you what you already knew; that you’d be a better ruler with someone you loved by your side.”

“It was more than that,” she insisted. The dance had ended, and she tugged his sleeve, moving him away from the dancers before the next song started. Without asking for permission, she tucked her hand in his elbow, and pulled him towards the refreshment table. It was clear that she had more to say on the subject. “You _showed me_ by example that such things could exist.”

Arthur felt embarrassed. Had he been that obvious? Elena had visited Camelot in the height of his infatuation with Gwen. It would have been shameful if he had put this kind, lonely girl in a situation where she _knew_ her rival from look alone.

“Elena, I’m sorry if my feelings for Guinevere…”

“Guinevere!” She exclaimed with a snort that was at odds with her fancy dress, not unlike the one she had used on the day of their cancelled wedding, but in midnight blue. “I knew nothing of Guinevere and I was frankly shocked when I heard the news you were marrying her! But it seems that you came to your senses in time!”

“It was a delicate situation,” Arthur answered, shocked. He would never have imagined that Elena would object to him marrying beneath his station, but he did not know her as well as he thought he did, it seemed.

“I know,” she agreed, with a smile. “It’s not so unusual, no matter how much everyone pretends that it is — or that nothing is happening — but don’t listen to others, Arthur. Just… Believe in what you and Merlin have and to the hell with their opinion!”

Her words brought Arthur to a stop. What on Earth was she talking about?

“Me?” he asked. “And Merlin?”

He couldn’t help but snort, and she punched him the same way she had done by the river years ago.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know? I know you tried to be discreet, but really, you can’t walk two steps without looking for him, and the same is true about him, and I _doubt_ you’re really fooling anyone but those who want to be fooled. Still, it _is_ hard, and people dismiss is as folly or a phase, or…”

“You can’t possibly really think I…” he shook his head, at loss for words. “And Merlin! I swear, of all people, _Merlin_ would be my last option even if I…”

Morgana would have been having a blast with the situation, there was nothing she liked more than teasing Arthur, and she used to make fun of him in a similar way when Merlin had first come to Camelot. They had, of course, had had some sort of falling out when Morgana’s magic had come to life, and it was obvious they still hadn’t solved their issues, though Arthur hoped they would, soon. It would be unbearable to live with both at odds with each other.

Elena’s face was contorted in a weird expression as she looked at him, as if his comments were puzzling, and Arthur realised she _truly_ did believe him and Merlin were a couple. What the hell?

“Are you sure?” She asked, as if his words could not convince her. “I mean — of course you are. I didn’t mean to offend you…”

“I’m not offended,” Arthur answered, though it wasn’t strictly true. “I’m surprised!”

She shook her head and sighed, as if she couldn’t figure him out.

“Even if things between you are not romantic,” she continued, clearly trying to return to her original point, though Arthur could barely remember it now. “You and Merlin are clearly loyal and devoted to each other. He may not be your lover, but he’s obviously your better half, making you better, and standing by you and doing all and more that a consort would.” She blushed for a second, before giggling. “Well, apparently not _all_ but you know what I mean.”

Arthur was stunned at her words, first because he did not expect them, and finally because he realised it was true. All things Elena had mentioned could be said of Merlin — he _did_ accept Arthur for who he was, and he _never_ had to pretend. All his failings, all his weaknesses, Merlin had seen through it all and never demanded him to be better. Merlin had hoped, it was obvious, and tried to inspire him and move him, but never forced his hand. And, like this, without making any sudden movements, he _had_ turned Arthur into a better man, into his very best self. It had been Merlin who had forced him to _see_ servants and common people as individuals, and Arthur would never have noticed Gwen without him. Merlin had taught him the importance of listening to advice, and to answer first to his own consciousness. Merlin had stood by his side even when he disagreed, as with Carleon’s death. Merlin was always honest with him, even when it hurt, and he did not lie to spare his feelings. He could trust Merlin’s opinions, because he _had_ Arthur’s best interests in his heart.

And, of course, not once but twice Merlin had seen him stripped of everything — titles, kingdom, crown, all gone to Morgana’s hand, and twice he had coaxed Arthur out of his stupor. He had stood by Arthur through thick and thin, and hadn’t Arthur been thinking about it just the previous day? Whatever else, Merlin was loyal, and he was incredibly lucky to have such a person in his life.

“Yes, I do,” he told Elena, still in shock. “I think I really do.”

Elena smiled softly at his dumbfounded face and leaned forward kissing him on the cheek.

“Figured it out, have you?” She asked, softly, and Arthur did not know what to think or say. Gladly, she did not require any sort of answer, she just walked away, back towards the guests.

His eyes scanned the hall, trying to find his manservant, and although he never left Arthur’s side, just now, when it was _essential_ for Arthur to find him, he couldn’t see Merlin anywhere. Where the damn was he?

Arthur prowled through the wedding guests like a man possessed, and maybe he was, for nothing else would explain the way his heart was beating wildly, as if he was about to go into battle or do something incredibly dangerous.

When the king finally found the servant, he was leaning against a wall, clearly plastered, and laughing uproariously at something Gwaine said. The knight was leaning forward, obviously sharing some anecdote — and if Arthur knew Gwaine at all, it was bound to be something completely inappropriate — and Arthur’s heart clenched at the sight. Merlin leaned forward as well, gripping Gwaine’s arm with his hand as he made an effort to steady himself up, still laughing, and Arthur saw red for a moment. A snake coiled around his heart, and he wanted to punch Gwaine, though he had done nothing out of the ordinary. He could have ripped away each of Gwaine’s strong fingers from where they curled around Merlin’s arm, and he certainly could have torn out his shiny hair from where it touched Merlin’s cheek.

“Yes, sire?” Merlin asked, grinning at him as if nothing had happened, as if Arthur’s world hadn’t just been shattered and rebuilt in the most absurd shape possible. “Is there anything you need?”

Arthur did not know what to say. The two men stared at him while he tried and failed to find something he could say, some explanation for his behaviour, but it was almost impossible to put into words. How could he say anything when he didn’t even know what he was feeling?

Merlin looked at him, and damned be the man, with his shiny soft blue eyes that could now pierce the depths of Arthur’s soul and bring his heart to a halting stop — or perhaps into a mad dash. There was infinite tenderness in his eyes, and Arthur felt like screaming and, at the same time, like he could not move without breaking something infinitely precious that he couldn’t yet name.

“Arthur, you must hear this one…” He said, oblivious to the storm raging inside the king, and gestured towards Gwaine. “Come on, tell him!”

The look the knight gave him was far more knowing than what Arthur was comfortable with, as if he could guess exactly what was going through his mind. It ran through his head in a spinning frenzy, every time someone else had looked at him like that — Morgana, Gwen, Gaius, even Annis just the night before. Had they all known? Had he really been as blind as that?

“Come on, Gwaine!” Merlin insisted, leaning back on the wall, away from the knight, the length of his arm warm against Arthur’s. “You’ll love it.”

“Alright, a knight, a priestess and a tanner walked into a bar…”

But Arthur was not listening — he could not hear anything, feel anything but the longing that filled him as Merlin had touched him, along with something like peace — something just right.

Oh, he was so screwed.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819003660/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Season, 1 Year** **Before** **Camlann**

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Just twice in his life, Merlin had walked into a ship and, as far as he was concerned, it was two times too many. Although he loved the smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves, the way the ship moved while crossing it was far too uncomfortable, and made his clumsy tendencies even worse than usual.

Of course, this time around the weather was far better, the only other time Merlin had been on a ship was around three years ago, when they had accompanied Morgana’s newly formed household to its new dwellings in Tintagel. On that first trip, they had crossed the Afon Bay between Elena’s home country, Gawant, and Morgana’s future seat. Merlin would never forget his first glimpse of the seaside fort, perched on edge of the Great Seas of Meredor, clearly protecting the bay entrance. That trip had been far shorter than the current one. This time around they had come straight from Carleon, sailing from Fryen and going south around Dyfed in order to reach Dumonia.

Just a small part of their original party had come through the sea; with the majority of the men returning to Camelot with Leon and Gwaine. Merlin would have much preferred doing most of the crossing by land with the other two knights, but these days, Arthur cared very little for what he preferred, and he hadn’t been given the option. Elyan, who looked almost as seasick as Merlin felt, at least had chosen to come.

Of course, the sick knight had decided to face the seas just for the opportunity of having some extra time with his sister. Though Arthur hadn’t told him anything about his plans — or much anything at all since their argument on their first night in Carleon — Merlin knew that Leon and the others were supposed to meet them in a couple of weeks, for Arthur would want to make a show of strength when coming to the treaty talks on Castle Maghhay. The meeting, which would include the sovereigns of Camelot, Dyfed and Gawant, was supposed to take place on the week of the lughnasadh festival. The site had been chosen because it stood exactly where the three kingdoms met, though it had, since the treaty of the five kings, been under Olaf’s possession.

Their purpose in coming to Dumonia was far less clear to Merlin. Morgana’s luxury prison was safe enough from land attacks from the Saxons, and, though they had ships and would raid the coast of Anglia and Mercia, the straights that had to be navigated to enter the bay were so treacherous that it was said that even in roman times, they hadn’t dared to attack through it. So, surely, it wasn’t out of a concern with her safety that Arthur had come. Merlin knew they had corresponded frequently in these three years, and, once, he had even been privy to the contents of these letters, but now, though Arthur would leave them carelessly around, Merlin would not presume to read them. He did not need to give the king any more reason to distrust him.

As Arthur’s eyes seemed to point out every time he asked a question, he had done nothing else for the last decade.

Stepping on solid ground was a relief, and Merlin wanted to kiss the rocks under his feet, though it was a miserable and rainy day. The overcast sky made the place look bleak, and he wondered, with a miserable shudder, what it would be like to be locked in such a place. The idea alone made him quiver again — Arthur wouldn’t, would he?

Once upon a time, he was sure, Arthur would have chopped his head off. Or, rather, Uther would have, with little protest from the Prince. Later, he believed, Arthur would have banished him, for his own safety. Even, at some point, he might have smuggled Merlin out of his father’s clutches or fought his father when it came to magic — and, no, Merlin had never wanted that. He knew how Arthur loved his father, and would never create a chasm between them — not even with lies. So he had kept his silent, his secrecy, for protecting Arthur, serving him, was far more important than being recognised for what he was.

The fact was that Merlin had no idea what Arthur would or would not do, not anymore. Once again, he tried to shut the scene away from his mind, the memory of being caught, of being so incredibly silly and careless and foolish as to allow Arthur to see him using magic. It should have been so trivial — something he had done hundreds, thousands of times before, getting the fire going… He could still see Arthur’s stunned expression and the naked hurt in his voice as he called Merlin’s name again and again.

The warlock hadn’t answered, he couldn’t have. He was far too scared to face the moment, it was too much, too intense. He had been so open to Arthur, and all his emotions had buffeted Merlin as if he were nothing more than a feather in the wind, almost tearing apart from the intensity of it alone. Bafflement, anxiety, fear, shock, anger-

Nothing.

A total and complete absence of anything coming from the King, as if in knowing Merlin’s true nature, he had, too, finally learnt a way to keep himself completely apart, uncaring, untouched.

Merlin would never admit, but he _had_ returned during that night just to make sure that Arthur _was_ alive and breathing, for he couldn’t tell. It had been even worse to see the man looking untouched by emotion, and yet, completely closed up to him.

It was as if nothing at all had happened, nothing at all had changed.

Except everything had, it couldn’t be any other way.

Shaking his head, Merlin tried to silence the voice in his head that insisted in revisiting his misery. He tried to focus on what he was doing, carrying four different bags into the hall. It was dark and a bit smoky, as old buildings tended to be.

They walked inside the castle and it was dark, even darker than outside. The rain was starting to fall down once again against the dock stones and the sound of the wind whistled around the courtyard, whining as it moved up towards the forbidding towers. Merlin shivered in cold and worry. He’d better hurry inside before the elements decided to punish him for whatever fault they found with him now; there were surely enough of them to choose from.

Tintagel was a far more provincial castle than Camelot, it had been built in ancient times by the Romans as a military outpost and it showed. Instead of grand stairs and winding hallways that led to a grand room, the courtyard door opened straight to one of the two large common halls. It was simple enough, sparsely furnished with tapestries to try and diminish the dampness of the place. A single fireplace was responsible for bringing light and heat into the hall; but the real warmth came from the woman, coming towards them.

Gwen’s brown eyes were as kind as Merlin remembered them, twinkling in pleasure. Her arms were half-stretched in their direction, palms turned up, as if ready to receive their hands in her and rub the coldness away from them. Her dark curls were pulled away from her face, piled in a matronly way on the top of her head, and she was wearing a lilac dress with embroidered beige flowers, the same one she had used when presiding a tournament as Arthur’s wife-to-be. Her eyes, however, showed no memory of those fateful days. In fact, she looked happier and more carefree than Merlin could remember her being since before — well, before Arthur had decided she was the love of his life. It seemed that Cornish air had done her some good after all, even if he had never supported sending her away.

“Welcome,” she said, spreading her arms a bit, in a gesture more delicate than elegant. “You had us worried for a while — I haven’t seen a storm like this coming since last winter!”

“You tell me!” Elyan replied, leaving aside formalities and pulling his sister into his arms. The knight’s smile was big and bright. “I could have gone without this weather!”

There was no real remorse in Elyan’s complaints, and it showed in the way he glowed in happiness. Next to him, Arthur looked even more drawn than he had in the last few weeks. It made Merlin’s heart ache, but he had lost the right — if he had ever truly _had_ the right — to do anything about it.

“It’s good to see you,” the king said, his face unreadable. Merlin couldn’t take his eyes away from Arthur, who didn’t take any notice of his servant’s staring. “I trust you and my sister have been well enough?”

Gwen curtsied as soon as she was out of her brother’s arms, but she did not have the time to answer before they were interrupted.

“Arthur Pendragon!” Morgana’s voice rang through the hall, drawing all eyes towards her, as she had undoubtedly meant to.

She knew, of course, how to make an impact with her entrance, her dark hair flowing freely down her back, unbound, the shiny black curls vibrating with the sound of her voice. She was wearing a dress he had seen a number of times, white satin covered with silver beads that drew patterns over the fabric. The silver attached to her sleeves, that trailed towards the ground, made a tinkling sound when they touched her bracelets, and the effect was as if bells sang as she walked. On the top of her head rest a silver and pearl diadem, and it was not similar anything Merlin had seen before, but he supposed she _was_ the royal presence in Dumonia and in such place, more ostentatious displays were expected, being so far from the capital.

“What,” she asked, her voice vibrating with both concern and amusement, “have you done to my knight?”

There was a proprietary tone in the way she asked it that made Arthur blush like some schoolboy. Never before Merlin had truly wondered why Leon had accepted such posting; he had simply assumed that, well, those had been Arthur's orders and Leon had always been beyond loyal. But, perhaps, there had been reasons beyond royal command for the knight to move away from home, personal ones. 

There had been rumours, of course, _before_ , about the two of them, but never, in all the years in which Morgana had been their foe, Merlin had seen any evidence that rumours had any true basis. It seemed amazing — how hard must Morgana's betrayal have hit Leon, if there were feelings involved! And, though she was now paying for her crimes, how could Leon forgive her all, love her still?

Morgana's eyes pierced him, and, at once, the enormity of his hypocrisy hit him - who was he, really, to speak of crimes and treason, he who had gone so far into it as to drown his own self into it like it were rich wine. He could barely dare to hope that Arthur would prove himself as magnanimous as Leon had. That is, if there was, indeed, something to the rumours and not only his own wild imagination and guilt trying to write a happy ending where there was nothing.

“Last time I checked, it was to _me_ he has sworn loyalty and service to, Morgana,” Arthur was only half-teasing, and she huffed, rolling her eyes.

“Formalities and technicalities — where is he?”

"You will see him soon," Arthur promised. "But you hurt me, Morgana - it's been over three years since we last met and the first thing you do is ask for Leon - one would think you like him better than me!"

There was something jovial and light in Morgana's face, at least when it wasn’t aimed at Merlin, that seemed to have reflected into Arthur. Merlin hadn't heard such teasing since spring - _before_.

The woman hadn't stopped walking as they spoke, and now she was close enough to touch, which she did, far more delicately than Merlin expected. Her nails were still long but clean as she scraped the King's left cheek while pressing her face against the right one. There was sanity in her eyes, and, for a moment, she could have been the girl that had been Merlin's friend - then, their eyes met, and anger, hatred and fear took over her face.

Would the Pendragons ever forgive him? And could he really blame them if they didn't?

"You'd be a fool to think otherwise," Morgana offered, but it wasn't as biting as it could have been, rather as if she was trying to get herself back together. It made him sick in the stomach to think he could rattle her so badly. "But it _is_ good to see you — though I’d be glad to see Great Aunt Auriel, it is dull enough as to make her interesting. The question is, is it good _for you_ seeing me again?"

"Very good," Arthur replied, his voice soft. "Could we - Could we talk? Privately?"

Morgana looked over her own shoulder to Gwen, and the two of them shared a look. The witch looked inquiring, and Gwen answered with a sharp nod. Morgana leaned her head towards Arthur, and Gwen was gone, ever so efficient. It was good to see the two of them so in tune again, it gave him hope, and hope was something he sorely needed.

"You all need rest - and food. Quarters for you and your men are being prepared. Supper will be served in two hours and, after that, I'll be honoured to attend upon you."

"There's no need..." Arthur started, as usual, uncomfortable with formalities, but Morgana was not a woman to be denied.

"There's _every_ need," she disagreed. "Nothing of consequence can be said with an empty stomach. Now, come and drink some tea with me while the servants finish their job".

Arthur had said many times he was clueless, but it was not true. He could recognise a dismissal when he heard one. There was nothing he could do but to accept it and leave.

Morgana did know just how to make him feel unwelcome, and in spite of everything, he could not say he blamed her.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819003500/in/dateposted-public/)

**Nearing Mabon Season, 4 Years B. C.**

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The thing is it really wasn't hard for Arthur to believe that he had that he loved Merlin. In fact, it was the easiest thing among all the things he had had to rearrange in his head in this last year. It was as if Elena’s words had lit a candle and brought light to places inside his had where he had never allowed himself to look before; and now that he knew, it was silly to pretend otherwise.

Of course he had always loved Merlin — but love was a very big word that involved lots of things and he was not sure that it meant what Elena thought it did.

It was a fact that when they had first met, Merlin hadn't been very impressed with Arthur. Of course, he had been a very different man then, one that he wasn't proud of being. It was just at Elena's words that he had understood just how deeply Merlin had changed him — both because of how Arthur felt, and because of who Merlin _was_.

It was nothing like Gwen. He had wanted to be perfect, to be better than he was only to be worthy of her. He had looked at Lancelot and known that the knight was the better man, the one she should have picked (And had he really allowed her to choose, or had he been a dolt, expecting her to love him back, giving her little option? Morgana had done her part, and so had Gwen; but Arthur was also to blame. He thought, guiltily, that Lancelot was dead because of him and his selfishness, and more than once). Deep down he had always known he was her second choice, but it had taken betrayal to admit it. He had become a better man because of Gwen, but it hadn't been her who had started it. In fact, she pretty much despised the man he had been before Merlin walked into his life.

He had not wanted to get Merlin as his manservant and for the first week he had done nothing but try to get the boy fired. Uther had seen through it, though, and insisted that idiot or not, Merlin had earned his place. It was as if his father had known that Merlin would be a good influence on his life and refused to accept his whining. In the end, he had had to accept that, at least for the time being, he would have to live with that weird, annoying, skinny servant walking behind him all the time. The thing was, as Arthur had said during their first fight, down by the lower town market, there was something about Merlin, something that he could not explain, not then, but maybe he could now: it was something in his eyes that inspired him to be a different person.

At first, it was a challenge: to be more than the stupid prat, royal prat, that Merlin had accused him of being. He had wanted to be more than a knight, more than a figurehead. Merlin had seen him and challenged him without knowing who he was — and that was to be understood, it happened from time to time, but the fact was that knowing that Arthur was the King's son hadn't stopped him from saying his mind. It was strangely refreshing. Arthur had no idea how much he had wanted it or missed it, but now he could say he positively craved it. Breaking Merlin’s expectations had been one of his greatest sources of joy, and, somehow, in the process, he had started caring — truly caring for the opinionated young servant.

That was because Merlin himself was a good man — maybe even a great man. Humble as he was, his heart was a noble one, and for all Arthur’s prodding and teasing, he was far braver than anyone else Arthur knew. Merlin cared for others and had a deep sense of duty, one that he followed without flinching. When time came to choose between what was easy, simple, expected and what was _right_ , the servant never hesitated, even if it landed him into trouble or if it meant breaking the law. He was skinny and without any military skills, and yet he was a champion of all those who could not speak for themselves. Merlin saw more than the appearance, going deep into men's — and women’s — hearts and judging them fairly. He was wise beyond his years, and Arthur, though he hated to admit it, had often drank from the fountain of his wisdom.

In fact, once, not so long ago, he had told Arthur that no one would sacrifice as much for Camelot and for Arthur as Gwen; that she, more than anyone, cared for him — but those were lies. Well, not deliberate lies but not the total truth either: because Arthur knew (and he suspected they all knew) that Merlin would do twice as much without ever expecting praise or even a thank you — he’d do it because he was loyal, because it was the right thing to do, because he was selfless — and Arthur loved him for it. It was something he had aspired to be before they had met: more than a bully but someone who would truly honestly do things for his people, for his knights, for his land. It had been by Merlin’s side and with Merlin's help that he had figured out the kind of King he wanted to be. Merlin had forced him to see beyond station and that was when he had truly noticed Gwen. She would never have been more than a servant to him if Merlin hadn't taught him to see so much more than that.

Arthur had hated it and admired it in turns, and it could, sometimes, be a heavy load to carry — knowing that there was someone that would not leave him no matter what happened; someone he could never truly disappointed because Merlin did not care for any of the formalities, he did not believe in any of the expectations, he cared and believed just in Arthur himself. He saw through all of his bad boy act and all of his masks and stood by him. That was how Arthur knew that Merlin loved him — but it did not mean that it was love _love,_ as in romantic love, as the poets sang of. No, it was more than that _that_ — it was more than sex and longing, more than a dying wish to kiss him — it was the knowledge that they’d rather stay together, for better or for worse. It was the understanding that they had through a single look, and the sense of rightness that came from being by each other’s side. It was the loyalty and the friendship, the differences and similarities, the way that Merlin had never pushed him to be anything other than he was, and yet encouraged him to be the very best he could be.

He would be forever thankful for all the things that he had learned with Merlin, through Merlin, or just by his side — so, no, it was not hard to love Merlin or even to admit it. What was hard was to know where it started, how far it went and what it really entailed, because if it were true, what Elena had suggested, then he would never be able to marry for love the way Merlin said he should, because there would be no woman on the land that could hold a candle to what Merlin was to him — and even if his feelings were _not_ romantic, it was unlikely that any other could ever be quite as important to him, and whatever wife he had would be but a third wheel to the most significant relationship of his life.

Ironically, he had not wanted to marry Guinevere because he could not stand to be her second choice — never considering that, one way or another, she would always come after Merlin.

Still, though he mulled over things all the way down to Dummonia, and then back to Camelot, Arthur felt he was no closer to figuring out just how he truly felt. Luckily, he knew just who to ask.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529277/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Season, 1 Year B. C.**

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Gwen was not expecting to find anyone when she walked inside Tintagel’s Secondary Royal chambers, but Merlin was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes vacant. She hovered for a moment under the door’s mantel, unsure if she should walk inside, but he took no notice of her. After a moment, she decided it was silly to turn back, she had a job to do and that job required that she checked if the room had been prepared to attend the king. And who better to tell her if something was missing than the king’s own servant?

“Hello there,” she said as softly as she could, afraid of scaring Merlin. He looked very much like a bird, as he was named, as if sudden movements would chase him away, and she did not want that.

“Oh, hi Gwen,” the man put on a smile, trying to fake cheerful, but there was something awfully shadowed in his eyes. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I came to ask if everything was in order,” she offered, and he shook his head.

“Everything’s perfect, I don’t think anyone could find fault with it,” his answer was both generous and honest, he seemed to not know what to do if he had nothing to take care of. Merlin had walked into the castle carrying more bundles than a mule going to the market, and the loss of them made him look more fragile — and yet, it was obvious that he had not put his true burdens down.

“I’m sure George could,” she teased, trying to find some common ground, some thread of their former intimacy that would allow her to question his mood. They had been very close, once, and she couldn’t help but worry in seeing him in such a state.

Merlin’s snort was forced, as was everything about him. His shoulder jerked with it, as if they hadn’t been ready for humour. It was as if he had forgotten how to smile, truly smile, though a ghost of his grin appeared in his face in a pale imitation of the true thing.

“Well, that’s George — you know that the only person that cares about George’s opinion is George.”

Gwen beamed, this was familiar ground. They had spoken of George’s tremendous sense of self-importance and their many duties more times than she could count. She walked closer, and from her new vantage point she could see the seams of his old brown coat were threadbare and uneven, as if he had been tugging at them.

It was, of course, a very old coat; Merlin had used it day in and day out for the best part of a decade. In fact, Gwen hadn’t expected to see him in it again; Arthur had commissioned a new coat for Merlin before Elena’s wedding, more padded and warmer; last time they had seen him, during the second midwinter since Morgana’s capture, Merlin had been using yet a different one.

More than the age of the coat, the threads were proof that Merlin was trying to put himself back together by rubbing at the edges of the fabric. It broke her heart to see it.

She came closer, and without even moving, Merlin folded himself like a tortoise returning to its shell, but the shell was gone.

The thought was enough to make Gwen understand what was wrong.

“So, where’s your majesty?”

“Your majesty?” Merlin’s voice was mocking. “That’s a new formal.”

“You should see the group of magpies that we have here,” Gwen said, and he looked puzzled, clearly not getting her imagery. “The ladies in waiting?”

“Ah,” Merlin nodded, but it was obvious he did not understand. “Chatty bunch?”

“It’s not that they are chatty, or even frivolous — I’m a seamstress, for gods’ sake, I can take a whole lot of frivolity — but they’re just…” Gwen shook her head, it was hard to put it in a few words, specially to a man. “I can’t believe I was ever that young and foolish!”

“No, you were born wise, Guinevere -” Merlin mocked, imitating the tone Lancelot would have used, even batting his eyelashes. Nowadays, it barely hurt. “They’re not worthy of being in your presence.”

“Stop that,” she admonished, slapping him lightly. “Morgana can’t stand them — they’re all far too young and too fearful to talk to her much, and while she _says_ it doesn’t matter, there are days when I think she must have grown to hate my voice, for I’m the only one she has to talk apart from them, and she never _does_ talk to those women.”

Morgana had always been a very active and intelligent woman, and it was hard for her, having to live with that many children that knew nothing about the world, cared little for news or politics apart from the marriages they hoped to make and who would simper when facing the smallest of the obstacles, and wouldn’t, in a million years, put on breeches and fight to defend themselves. Of course, it was not that Merlin felt all that sorry for Morgana (neither would say what happened between them, though it was obvious that they could not trust each other), but he had never had much patience for that sort of behaviour.

“I very much doubt that,” Merlin’s eyes were soft now, but it was clear he was deflecting the problem.

“Enough about me — or Morgana,” Gwen said, tired of going around in circles. “How have you been? What has Arthur done this time?”

She used the king’s first name to try and get him to open up, but he grimaced at the question.

“Well, he has dragged my sorry arse through a few leagues under a storm!”

It was obvious that the humour was an attempt at deflecting. Merlin had never been all that good in sharing, but he didn’t use to hide secrets from her. Gwen shook her head, dismissing his boyish attempts and held his hand.

“You can tell me what he has done.”

The man barked out a laugh, but it was a bitter sound, like nails scratching on polished wood. It made him appear even more brittle than before.

“Why are you so sure it was not _me_ who did something?”

One of the things she had always loved about Merlin was how protective he was of those he loved, but she was ready to admit that when it came to Arthur, he passed the mark by far. As if someone did not know that he would do anything to make the king happy. She had resented it, once, knowing that all her efforts were but a shadow of the things he did without thinking, and that Merlin was able to give Arthur things he wouldn’t even think to ask, because the servant knew the king’s heart in a way that went far beyond words.

“Because I know, even if you have forgotten, that if you _did_ do something, it was _the best_ for Arthur — and he knows it too — so he’s the one in the wrong either way.”

“Does he?” Merlin’s tone was broken and so frail, that she couldn’t help but squeeze his hand to give him some comfort.

“He does, even if he forgets it sometimes. You know his temper will vanish and he’ll remember that you’re — well. You.”

The two of them looked at each other, his blue eyes filled with tears.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” He whispered, brokenly. “I’m me.”

“How is that a problem?” Gwen frowned. He wasn’t making sense.

“The problem,” Merlin answered, slipping his hand away from hers, “Was that he wishes I was anyone else — anything else — not what I am.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, but the servant just shrugged and walked away, turning towards the window and watching the rain batter against the uneven glass. “What do you mean, Merlin?”

But try as she might, she could not get another word out of him.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819259150/in/dateposted-public/)

 


	4. Chapter 4

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**Nearing Mabon Season, 4 Years** **Before** **Camlann**

 

The one good thing about appearances was that they were able to fool almost anyone. In fact, Gwaine had lost count of how many times his well known reputation as a drunkard and a scoundrel had earned him acceptance into the less exalted social circles in the land. Another might have scorned such company, but Gwaine knew that they had something one could never have enough of: information.

Taverns were the best place for gossip and for finding out how people truly felt, and Gwaine was proud to be able to gauge the mood of the people from 200 paces away — though, of course, in some cases the problem proved to be the brew being served. No one should have to suffer through bad beer. Still, most people were faithful patrons of the same spaces, and the fact was that he had been so notorious _before_ becoming a knight of Camelot, that even all these years later, he was mostly known as just-Gwaine, no-second-name necessary.

Most people would never admit to half of the things they told Gwaine if asked, but tonight he was not a knight — he was just the old drunk scoundrel who’d flirt with every woman around — and every man too, who was counting? What most of his fellows did not realise, and that their princess-king probably never had even considered was that he had _reason_ for acting the way he did. He knew what was happening in the lower town and all around Camelot because he knew people, and because a lot of them would talk to him, and after half a tankard of mead words flowed much more fairly. He was also far more attentive than people give him credit.

For example, he was sure that princess did not realise he _knew_ he was being watched. Gwaine pretended he had no idea that the King was hiding beneath a shabby blue cloak on the corner and just offered yet another round of drinks to a pair of farmers. They were not men with a high social standing, but they held a lot of land and made more profit than some of the lower lords in Camelot. In fact, they were responsible for most of the milk and dairy that came to the Citadel, but he doubted princess could pick them up on a line.

Gwaine could, and he also knew that they were awfully fond of Mary’s sweet mead.

Ignoring completely the man on the corner, he returned to his conversation with the two men, who were well on the way to being thoroughly drunk, though it was hardly past noon.

“Foolish, the boy is,” said Lewis, the oldest of the two. He was probably closer to Gaius than to Uther in age, and should’ve left the running of the state to his son long ago, but the man was worse than useless. “Should have locked her up!”

“Morgana?” Gwaine asked, and the old man shook his head.

“No — the damn serving girl!” His voice was angry, and the knight steeled himself to hear what stupid thing was to come from his mouth now. “I bet she was in league with the witch all along! Weren’t they friends?”

“I don’t think -” Gwaine started, but the man drunk his cup dry on a single gulp, and banged it on the counter.

“Bah, women!” He shook his head vehemently. “Can’t trust any of them! They all have some sort of sortilege!”

Lewis dried his white-grey beard with the back of his hand, then, as if thinking better of it, he stood up, spit on the floor, and stomped out, giving Mary the stinky eye. The barmaid, of course, took no notice of it. His friend, Rhys, just snorted.

“Has his wife been giving him trouble again?” Gwaine asked, and the older man gave him a toothless grin.

“Oh, I think it was his youngest daughter — says she wants to move to the citadel and become a serving girl in the castle. She’s sure she’ll catch the eye of the King — or one of his handsome knights.”

Rhys winked at Gwaine, and the knight laughed at it. He had met Lewis’s daughter once or twice before, she could not be older than thirteen — far too young, in his opinion, but he knew she was supposed to marry another farmer’s late son. The man had died during the last attack to Camelot, and it seemed that the girl was getting wild ideas with her newfound freedom.

The farmer had not been discreet in his comment, and Gwaine heard Arthur gasp with horror from the corner. For such a good hunter, the princess was awful at being inconspicuous.

“I better check on him, or he’ll end up making a fool of himself outside,” Rhys apologised. “It was good to see you, Gwaine.”

“Good to see me or to drink on my tab?” the man shot back, and the older man laughed, patting Gwaine’s face.

“Take care, my friend.”

Gwaine was still smiling, when he decided that he better check on Arthur and figure out what the hell he wanted. He surely had made an effort to get to this tavern — it could not be a coincidence — and it couldn’t have been easy get rid of Merlin, who never left his side if he could help it, as if he were afraid Arthur might break like glass away from him.

Well, with all honesty, it was possible. The princess _was_ rather prone to attacks, poisons and other maladies.

Gesturing Mary in a familiar way, he walked towards the corner booth, almost completely tucked away from view. The folds of the cloak and the darkness did a fairly good job of hiding the King’s face, but Gwaine would recognise the line of that roman nose anywhere, if only because he often felt the urge to break it in two.

“Fancy seeing you here,” the knight said, sitting across the king. “What have I done to warrant such an honour?”

Arthur scoffed at him, retreating further in his seat.

“What makes you think I’m here for you?”

It was Gwaine’s turn to snort, such a stupid question.

“It’s barely past noon, you’re a good way from the citadel, dressed as a peasant, and nursing your cider. Either you’re doing a crap job of spying on me, or you’re trying to nurse a broken heart like those poor sods,” he answered, gesturing towards two men, barely out of boyhood, who had already been drunkenly crying about some girl that made a fool of both of them since Gwaine arrived. Now, one of them seemed to be reciting (bad) poetry about the girl in question to the second one’s snores. He saw Arthur flinch from the corner of his eye, and it brought it all spinning into focus. “No!”

“What?” Arthur asked, seeming surprised at Gwaine’s reaction.

“I’ve been stupid!”

“That would mean you _aren’t_ at some point,” Arthur growled, and Gwaine ignored him.

“ _Of course_ you’re nursing a broken heart — you did all that big scene of sending Gwen away, but, really-”

“Things between me and Guinevere are well over,” the king informed, like the pompous arse he was. Gwaine could have punched him, but he’d rather stay out of the stocks for now, it seemed like it was going to rain later. “I have no regrets-”

“Blah blah blah,” Gwaine interrupted him before he said anything else. “So you say, but, now that I think about it, you’ve been moping since Queen Elena’s wedding…”

“A king does not mope, Gwaine,” Arthur admonished, but all he did was grin back, the man just made it too easy.

“Oh, but princesses do — and you’re even better at pouting than at swordcraft.”

“I don’t pout!” the king was indignant, and the knight laughed.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you came to _mope_ -”

“I’m not _moping_ ,” Arthur insisted. “I’m _considering my choices in life_.”

“Now, that’s unusual,” Gwaine teased, and Arthur punched his arm.

“Indeed, if I did it more often, I’d have sent you away a long time ago. As if it weren’t enough to have a manservant that spends far too long in the tavern, I have a captain of guard who thinks _drinking_ is the same thing as _gathering information_.”

“It _is_ a very useful way to…” Arthur waved his words away, it was clearly not the topic he wanted to discuss.

“Whatever you say, Gwaine. But you’re right — I did come looking for you.”

The knight gave the king his most charming smile and swished his hair as well for good measure. Arthur, as usual, looked unimpressed.

“No need to worry about the tab, I’ve set it all up with Mary —” he started, but the blond man looked uncomfortable. “What’s bothering you, Arthur?”

Gwaine would not say they were friends. No, they were far too alike in many ways to be _friends_. It would be hard for either to be vulnerable, to ask for help — so whatever had brought Arthur to the tavern, alone, and looking for Gwaine, was probably serious.

“You’re… You’ve lived in many places.”

The knight frowned, not only because this was stating the obvious, but also because it sounded like a conversation that they should have had months before.

“I like to boast that I’ve been into every tavern in the five kingdoms.”

“Sounds likely,” Arthur agreed, with a small smile and an offer of cider. “You’ve seen all sorts of custom and lived in many places. Not everywhere is like Camelot, am I right?”

“Is this about magic?” he asked, point blank. He had no talent for going around in circles, if this was what Arthur wanted, he probably should have gone to Leon. Then again, he _had_ exiled Leon along with his damned sister. It was hard, for Gwaine, to forgive Morgana the friends he was missing as they were sent to make sure she didn’t become trouble.

“Rumour has it,” Arthur continued, as if Gwaine hadn’t said a thing. “That you’ve had _liaisons_ with a lot of people.”

“What can I say, I’m hard to resist, princess,” the knight winked, using all of his bravado where patience was lacking. “Why, did you want some tips? Or maybe to be the object of my affections?”

“Not in a million years,” the man’s voice was cold, but he hadn’t expected anything else. Riling Arthur up was far too easy. “Though — I have a question to ask.”

“About _liaisons_ ,” Gwaine repeated, mocking, but it wasn’t his tone that was making the King blush.

“About your affairs, yes — more specifically, your affairs with men.”

Something in his tone made Gwaine tense for a moment — could it be that it bothered the king? He had never said anything before, and a number of soldiers would turn to each other for comfort during times of war, but maybe his bold, in-your-face way of bedding men even when there was peace bothered Arthur. There were men that could be particular that way, and how ironic would it be that, after freeing magic, Arthur would be looking for a new pet prejudice.

“Is there a problem?”

Arthur sort of shrugged, looking anywhere but at Gwaine. It was nothing like his attitude about magic back when he claimed to hate it — no, it was uncertainty, shame, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

“Have you been with any men since you came to Camelot?”

There was _nothing_ on Arthur’s tone or stance that hinted at the reason behind his question, but Gwaine knew the man well enough to realise what had prompted this whole charade.

“This is about Merlin-” he started, and before Arthur said whatever was at the tip of his tongue, Gwaine raised his hand, interrupting it. “Don’t you think you’re going a bit far? You’re not the guardian of his virtue, and I don’t see Gaius -”

“So you _are_ involved?” Arthur asked, his voice both eager and torn, and suddenly it was all too clear to Gwaine.

It was not just that he was a possessive arrogant brat of a prince — well, King. There was a very real ache in his words, and while in anyone else, Gwaine would have put him out of his misery, when it came to Arthur, he just couldn’t help pressing the point.

“Would it be so bad if we were? Do you think it’s _inappropriate?”_

Arthur made a disgruntled noise with his throat, and the knight took pity on him for once.

“No, we’re not together.”

The king looked up quickly, and now Gwaine could see both fear and hope in his eyes. It should have been obvious far sooner that Arthur really was in love with Merlin, but maybe Gwaine just hadn’t wanted to see it, because he didn’t need another point in which Merlin was far too good for the man he served.

“How do —” Arthur cleared his throat and set his shoulders in place before continuing. “How do you _know_ when you like a man _that_ way?”

Sometimes, Gwaine wondered if there was just a tiny sparkle of magic within him, because he could swear that there was an aura of desire or something around Arthur making the whole question stupid. He exhaled his need of Merlin through every pore, and it made him vibrate, Gwaine couldn’t even resent it.

“I’m guessing you don’t need a lesson in the obvious signs of attraction,” he answered with another wink, and it made Arthur shrink, looking a bit disgusted. Then again, even when he _had_ been in love with Gwen, the king had never been a man to be primarily attracted to someone on a physical level. Gwaine had known a couple of people like him, people whose heart needed to be in it first. This must be unbearably hard for him, and for once, the knight decided that kindness was the answer. “There are so many things — wanting to be near them or butterflies in your stomach. It’s not that different from a woman, really.”

Gwaine shrugged, because, really, what could he say? Arthur may be unwilling to face his own desires, but he couldn’t possibly have denied them so completely. The two men stared at each other for a long second.

“I’m —” Arthur’s voice faltered, and he took a deep breath. “I’m not sure.”

The knight shook his head, his hair hiding his face and the exasperation there.

“You have to figure it out yourself,” he warned, “You need to be _sure_ before you do anything — if you break his heart-”

“I’d never!” Arthur seemed both insecure with the situation and appalled at the idea that he might hurt his servant. Not that they had said any names. There was no need. There was only one person in Arthur’s life that could be the cause for such soul-searching — and it had taken long enough.

“Please,” Gwaine scoffed. “You leave a trail of broken hearts wherever you go. Just — don’t make him just another one.”

Gwaine knew it was hypocritical of him to tell the king so, being a heartbreaker himself, but it took one to know one. Arthur didn’t even bother correcting him or pointing it out. They were silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, unwilling to face each other.

“I love him, Gwaine,” the king’s voice was barely above a whisper, cracking a bit. “I would never — I just have to be sure I love him _the right way_.”

The knight could only stare at the blond man in wonder. He considered pointing out that Arthur had loved Gwen, too, and it had not stopped him from sending her away with her heart smashed in pieces. Still, he could tell this was _different_ , that it went far beyond the romance and the longing, but that he spoke of a form of love so deep and so all-encompassing that even betrayal could not undo.

Not that Merlin would ever betray Arthur, in thought or deed. Gwaine knew well enough that the king was the sun to Merlin’s universe, the centre of his life.

“Is there,” Arthur cleared his throat, bringing Gwaine back to the reality of the poorly lit tavern where the two of them first met. “Is there a way to make sure?”

He could only shake his head, unsure of what to say.

“Listen,” he sighed. “It should be simple enough — do you feel good when he touches you? When you hold him, do you feel like squeezing him closer? When you look at his mouth, or think about kissing him, do your lips tingle?”

Arthur was staring at him, lips parted, moving slowly to reform Gwaine’s words like a man who just had a vision. The answer could not be more obvious. The knight grinned and stood up, clapping the king on his shoulder.

“Seems my work here is done!”

He walked away wishing that things were just as easy when it came to his own heart.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529617/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Season, 1 Year** **Before** **Camlann**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Arthur could not deny that he felt much better after taking a bath and having a hot beverage forced down his throat by a very worried Gwen. Time was, indeed, the best remedy. He no longer felt awkward in her presence and could thoroughly enjoy her mothering. Morgana seemed to have thrived on it, as if Gwen’s care and Leon’s steadfast presence had melted away the intervening years of suffering, and she was once again — well, not as she was, but more like herself and less like the haunted woman who had been brought from the forest floor to his throne room.

Still, he was restless as he got ready for dinner. After he had taken his bath, he had found his armour spread out on the top of the bed, looking pristine. The long red cape he used on state occasions was also set, and it had been pressed until it looked fresh out of the washing room. There was no way to do it in the short time-span he had spent soaking his aches on the water. Not that he doubted _who_ was responsible for such a miracle or _how_ it had been achieved.

But thinking of Merlin and Magic hurt far too much, so Arthur had done what he did best: ignored it.

It was made easier by the fact that the man himself was not to be found anywhere. George, eager as ever, was the one sent to help him with his clothing. If he had allowed himself, Arthur would have felt bereft of his manservant’s presence; dressing Arthur up and helping with his armour was a privilege that Merlin had always guarded jealously. Now, it seemed, it was just another chore that anyone — in this case, George and his pompous manners — could perform.

He very much _did not think about it_ as he got ready. The king could not help but to make a face when George saddled him with a crown. Not even in a hundred years would he get used to it, and this one in specific was a bother. It had belonged to Uther, and it never fit perfectly in his head — well, nothing from his father had ever fit him as it should. The old man would be rolling in his grave to see the changes Arthur had made to the kingdom he had so loved (if one could call _love_ the choking hold he kept on the land, but he _knew_ his father would say that it was _exactly_ what love meant). He allowed the cape to be tied around his neck and felt like chocking. He wanted none of the formalities, he simply wanted to speak to his sister.

“Smile,” she warned him from between her teeth when they met in front of the hall’s doors. Morgana was beaming, though he could read annoyance on the corners of her eyes. Well, he _had_ sent her to Dumonia _knowing_ they loved pageant and protocol.

There was nothing to do but obey, so Arthur did as she asked.

It was nothing like Camelot. The castle’s great hall was a touch less dreary than the large room where they had first been received, but it still looked almost barbaric. There were simple torches on the walls, without the careful crafting of the citadel’s lamps; the floor was rough stone instead of a polished one, covered by animal pelting in lieu of rugs. Even with the poor lighting, Arthur could see that a small crowd had come to watch them dine; perhaps not as large as the one that had materialised on the evening before he left _last_ time, but still dozens of people were jostling for the honour of watching them eat.

He could almost hear Merlin scoffing and saying it was pathetic. The impression was such a strong one that he half turned to look behind himself, but there was no one there — just a line of knights and ladies in waiting. The king looked back to the front, but could not escape the pitying look Morgana gave him.

Not that he had ever confided in her just _how much_ it all hurt; how far things went between the two of them — but he probably didn’t need to. More likely than not, Morgana had known how he felt before he did.

It was better to focus on her than on the perpetual pain that seemed to press the left side of his chest for the last three months. His sister contrasted heavily with the rustic room they were in; there was nothing simple or straightforward about her. Her clothes were elaborate, the undergarments in midnight blue were embroidered with shimmery silver-grey spirals that came from the half-hidden hem that they had encircled, up through the length of the cloth until they reached the similarly designed neckline. Over it came another layer of something like velvet in Imperial Purple, whose large trailing sleeves almost touched the floor. Both pieces shared the same embroidered pattern that made her glitter, although she wore no jewels except for the crown that declared her Camelot’s heir and the bracelets that kept her magic locked away.

As he offered his hand to help her sit down, his fingers touched the cold iron and it made him shudder. How awful must it be, to have a part of yourself cut off? Like waking up one morning to find oneself deaf or dumb — and he had called the punishment _love_ when he had given it. Maybe he was more of his father’s son than he liked to admit — perhaps there _had_ been a reason for Merlin’s lies.

But surely he had known Arthur would never lock him up like this?

And if he hadn’t been sure, how could Merlin have given his heart up for Arthur as he had?

Unless — unless it had been fear and horror all along, not love.

Morgana cleared her throat pointedly, and Arthur remembered himself, raising his goblet to salute the company they were in. He probably should have made a small speech, but being graceful was beyond him.

The king suspected that the meal was excellent, but everything tasted like ashes in his mouth, all he could think of was how he had failed some of the people he loved the most — Morgana, Merlin — even when trying to make things right. How many more had doubted the sincerity of his words, when even those he loved he could treat it so harshly?

Merlin and Morgana, at least, would see that he had meant it this very night; once they knew why he had come, they’d understand he truly meant it all. And others, he supposed, would do so in time.

Arthur longed for a completely different sort of meal, on a comfortable Camelot room — just the four of them, as when it all started. The girls would be comfortable, Gwen sitting on the arm of Morgana’s chair, Merlin next to him. Arthur would say something obnoxious and Merlin would throw grapes at him, and Morgana would roll her eyes at the two of them, and Gwen would pet her into letting it all go. It felt like something that _had_ happened, that _should have_ happened, but it never did. Although they all had been close, once, they hadn’t been ready to let their barriers down to show it, Arthur most of all.

This would end tonight. No more pretences, at least on his part.

His eyes swept the hall as if it were a battlefield, intent on finding a single detail. It didn’t take him long to find Merlin, though he was doing his best to be invisible, hunched next to Percival at one of the lesser tables. He was not a short man, nor nearly as skinny as he had been on his early years in Camelot, but the knight dwarfed all of them.

Arthur gestured to George, who was always prepped and ready to comply, and the man stepped forward and leaned in, still managing to look inconspicuous. It was a trick that Merlin had never learnt — and Arthur had no wish that he did. It had never been his serving abilities that had made Arthur love Merlin, in fact, it could be said that his feelings were as big as the other’s lack of skill.

“Let Merlin know that I expect him to attend upon me after dinner, while I talk to the lady Morgana.”

The man was gone after barely nodding, and Arthur pretended to taste the fifth course of the meal while watching the two servants talk on the corner. The answer was obvious in George’s defeated expression, and it made the king’s heart churn.

“If you need, sire, I’ll do it myself,” and this was the closest he would be to suggesting that Merlin was being impertinent, the mere suggestion making his eyebrow twitch.

“No —” Arthur stopped, taking a deep breath. “Tell him I insist. Tell him that I will be discussing delicate business and that I need his counsel.”

George’s expression was almost horrified at the idea that the king was going so low as to request once again the presence of a mere servant, but he did it anyway. It was clear from Merlin’s body language that he very much wanted to deny the request, but did not dare to. He shot Arthur a look that was filled with resentment, stood up and disappeared into the crowd. The king tried to ignore it — hopefully, a lot would be fixed by the night’s conversation.

Although they left the room in the same formal procession that had followed them in, all that Morgana had to do was snap her fingers and it was as if the whole mass of people had evaporated, so quick they were to leave them alone. Only Gwen remained, standing behind his sister, looking amused.

"They're terrified of you!" Arthur pointed out with a chuckle.

"I'm a wicked witch," Morgana answered, shrugging while moving her hands up, the terrible jewellery glittering under candlelight.

"I suppose you are," he answered, trying to sound as nonchalant as she did.

"So – I set up a space for the two of you to talk-" Gwen started, and the king interrupted right away.

"Enough with formalities! It _is_ a sensitive topic, but I just want to talk to my sister."

It was, evidently, the right thing to say. Gwen beamed at him, a smile full of warmth and mirth, as if she had caught the sunshine between her lips.

"Yes. As I was saying, I made the inner parlour of her bedchamber ready," she kept on smiling, though it was obvious that Arthur was being chided for interrupting. "And I asked Merlin to fetch some wine. I trust you wouldn't want anyone else in there."

The king was touched by her tact, and just how well she knew him. She might not know where things stood between Merlin and him (though, of course, he was no longer sure himself), but she _knew_ he was the person Arthur would want around in a crisis. Her only oversight, it seemed, was thinking that Merlin was the only one.

"Yes," Arthur agreed, clearing his throat, "Just the four of us."

Guinevere looked surprised at being included, but Morgana looked grateful. Arthur allowed himself to bask in the warmth of their appreciation, which was ever so rare. For a moment, he was rather glad just to share a look with them, then it became too much, and he jerked his head forward.

"Come on. Lead the way."

He followed the two women through corridors, until they reached the outer doors of the bedchamber. Merlin was waiting for them there, carrying a tray with a silver pitcher and some cups. He avoided Arthur's eyes deftly, with an ease practiced through weeks, and the king was torn between flinching in shame and slapping him for being the prat he always accused Arthur of being.

The four of them entered in a pregnant silence. The only sound to be heard were the logs crackling under the fire and the rustling of fabric against the tapestries that covered the floor. There were three wooden armchairs in front of the fireplace; the purple cushions embroidered with golden dragons looked disjointed and faded enough to have been from Morgana's first lessons on it. She sat on one of them, likely her usual, to the left of the fireplace, and gestured for her brother to take the right side one. Gwen put the glasses down in one of the side table, serving them herself. Arthur heard Merlin and her bickering over it, and Morgana shot him an amused look.

He accepted the cup from Merlin’s hand, still trying to find the right words to present his case. The king took a small sip from it — and it was nothing like the sweet wines from Camelot, but something dry and cutting, very much like his sister. He would have laughed, but the taste made him cough, and when he looked back up, it was to see Merlin standing behind Morgana, clutching the pitcher in his hands, thoroughly alarmed, as if he expected Arthur to drop dead in front of him.

Well, it was, in all likelihood, exactly what he feared. Give him half a second of doubt, and he would be blasting Morgana through the room in a rush to protect him. It made Arthur equally angry and moved — he was _not_ some child that needed constant looking after, and he had never really done anything to deserve such loyalty. And yet, if he doubted many things, Merlin’s loyalty was not one of them. He raised his hand towards the manservant in a gesture to calm him down, and for a moment, they felt as close as they used to be. Then, as the other man calmed down, he retreated back into himself and the shadows behind Morgana’s seat.

His sister shot Merlin a glance that was equal parts venomous and amused.

“Oh, don’t worry, he won’t die from drinking a stronger wine,” she winked at Arthur. “If I wanted to kill him _now_ , I wouldn’t use something as easily thwarted as _poison_.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Merlin muttered back, but Morgana decided against engaging him, turning back towards Arthur.

“I don’t think he’ll ever believe me,” she said, as if Merlin was not in the room with them. “You might as well say what you came to say, because if we wait for Merlin here to be calmer, we’ll be waiting for years.”

There was a look between the two women and Gwen giggled, Merlin looked at her as if offended that she was siding with Morgana instead of with him. Arthur took a deep breath and set down his cup, before starting to speak.

“We have received alarming reports all through this spring,” he started, and then stopped, unsure of how to phrase the threat.

“What about?” Morgana insisted, and she leaned a bit ahead. Tintagel was a secluded place, so it was unlikely she had heard anything.

“Saxons — Saxons coming in ships, more than their lands could hold.”

“Oh, that,” she said with a chuckle. “It has been happening for years.”

“Not at this scale,” Arthur disagreed, and she just gave him a sour smile.

“I can well believe it’s something else if you’re gallivanting all around Albion and meeting up with everyone that is anyone,” Merlin snorted at this, which made Arthur give up on his plan to protest the use of the word ‘gallivanting’. It would only add fuel to the fire. “Forgive me for not being excited about pointless bloodshed.”

“Now look —” The king took a deep breath, keeping his tongue in check. Telling Morgana that it was a bit rich considering their shared past would help no one, and certainly wouldn’t stop the Saxons.

His thoughts must have been obvious to his sister, for she smirked at him before crossing her legs, leaning towards him.

“You’re too easy to rile, little brother. Now, tell me — what do you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want something from you?” He knew he was stalling, but he couldn’t make it too easy for Morgana, it wouldn’t be right.

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

It was much simpler and to the point than Morgana usually was, and he couldn’t help but sigh. It was not the time for games and measuring his words, he would have enough of it on the weeks to come, but the whole thing — the best thing — about this room was that these were people he shouldn’t need to pretend with.

“I am, and you _are_ right,” he said, looking straight at her. “I need your help — Albion needs your help. I’m trying to form an alliance to fight against the Saxons, and I’m willing to commit to the cause, but it isn’t enough,” he stopped, wetting his lips, getting ready for what was to come next. “The truth is that the Saxons have more men than we do — real fighting men. We have bigger numbers, but only one in ten is a warrior, most are farmers, and butchers, and know nothing of fighting a war. We can still win, though, even if it’s a close thing… But it’s not only men they’re bringing.”

“ _Skalds,”_ she said, and the word hung in the air between them. “That’s what they’re called — Skalds.”

“So you’ve heard of them,” Arthur felt a surge of relief at his sister’s words. She leaned back, shrugging elegantly.

“Morgause might have mentioned them once or twice.”

“She did more than that,” Merlin said, his voice soft above her head, and she looked upwards in a clear challenge. “Gaius says she lived among them after the Priestesses were defeated.”

“Did he, now?” Morgana asked, insolently. “Dear old Gaius always knows everything and cares very little to tell people what they _need_ to know, isn’t it right?” Merlin did not raise to the bait, and she moved back towards Arthur, her smile so sharp that it could cut glass. “So, what? You think I can give you information that Gaius could not?”

“No,” Arthur shook his head, grinning, now that the time to voice his hopes had come. “I think you can help us beat them.”

The silence in the room was so thick that even Excalibur would have had a hard time cutting through it. Gwen was frowning, twisting her fingers in her hand; Morgana looked stunned, her back ramrod straight, and Merlin was gripping the jar in his hands so tightly that Arthur would be surprised if it didn’t retain the marks of his fingers. He, of course, was the one that knew him best, and he had understood it more quickly than the rest. Neither of them would speak, so Arthur decided he best continue.

“It is foolish to pretend we can fight magic with steel and sinew alone — I was a fool if I ever thought we could. But magic was forbidden — and since it isn’t… I may not have offered as much protection and freedom as the magic users could want, but I _did_ offer them what I could. Only I realise it is all just _words_ if I don’t include _you_ in the fights for our land. It really doesn’t mean all that much if I —”

Words failed him, as they often did, and Arthur stood up, fingers running through his pouch, trying to find the one object that had been in his mind the whole evening. He held it firmly in his fingers, feeling the metal even as he knelt in front of Morgana, pulling her arms towards him. His hand held firmly to her wrist, keeping the bracelet in place while he slipped his key into it. His sister did not move while he freed her of the shackles he had put in place himself, but he could almost feel it in his bones, the surge of power and magic rushing back to her veins, almost like an electrical crackling around them. A part of himself was afraid, but for the most part, he knew, that if he _had_ made the wrong choice, he would deserve whatever fate was in store for him.

Nothing happened, and he finally decided to step back again. The woman in front of him held her arms up, staring uncomprehendingly at her bare wrists, as if she couldn’t really believe it. Arthur glanced quickly towards Merlin, whose eyes were at the same time weary and watery. The king waited for any sort of reaction, growing more tense as time went on without one.

“Morgana!” Guinevere called, but the witch looked dazed.

“It’s a lot to deal with,” Merlin interrupted in a low voice. “Give her time.”

The words seemed to wake Morgana from her stupor, and she turned to shoot Merlin a venomous look.

“You!” She spat, and the two of them stared at each other with an intensity of shared hatred, distrust and broken promises. Arthur could almost hear the thunder rumbling outside in response to their animosity, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, not really. He cleared his throat, feeling incredibly inadequate and absolutely powerless between the two of them, and, as if it _were_ magic, they looked from each other to him and the tension dissolved.

Gwen finally moved forward, catching Morgana in her arms, and the two of them embraced. He heard but did not see his sister crying, her sobs echoing on the empty chamber. Without knowing what to do, he looked at Merlin, hoping for some clue, but his servant was too busy staring at the floor in shame.

It finally occurred to Arthur that Merlin’s magic might complicate whatever issues lay between the servant and Morgana. Worry spread through him and he clenched his teeth, forcing it to a stop. Whatever it was, Merlin was hardly blameless. He had made his bed, now he’d have to lay in it, and Arthur wouldn’t be the one to tell Morgana she had no right to be hurt and angry that he had not told her the truth.

“Fight with me, Morgana,” Arthur said, finally, offering her his hand. “Not just you — all of your people. Bring them together and lead them by my side, for Albion.”

“Me? Are you sure? _Me_?” she repeated, shaking her head even as she stood up to face him.

“There’s no magic user I’d trust as much,” Arthur answered, and it was only half a lie, and if it tore his heart away to admit it, if he felt soul ripped to shreds in voicing the schism that had come between him and Merlin, his sister did not need to know.

(Though, most likely, she did).

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529407/in/dateposted-public/)

**Mabon Season, 4 Years** **Before** **Camlann**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612681/in/dateposted-public/)

Merlin was trying his best not to drop the tin lantern on the tip off his metal rod.It was no easy task, but one he relished on nonetheless. There was something wonderful about the smell of applewood spreading through the chambers. As if mabon was finally arriving. It was very inconvenient how high the nail was placed, but it was the best way of keeping it from being tumbled by the wind. The thing was almost in place when Arthur walked in, slamming the door and making him jump and dropping the whole thing down. 

The ashes from the hanging brazier rained down on him like black snowflakes and some of the coal was red hot, but he managed to tap them off with his magic without the king noticing. Arthur, of course, was completely oblivious to the whole thing; as if finding his manservant covered in ash was completely expected (and, to be fair, it sounded like a perfectly typical Tuesday). 

"Merlin," he said with a grin that looked slightly deranged, not that anyone would tell the prat that. "What do you think of that new serving girl?" 

"You've got to be more specific, sire, there are at least a handful of new serving girls since you became king." Merlin snorted, "They seem to think that you are free game for all of them -- you know, you should really just call Gwen back before they start getting weird ideas. I mean, more than they already do.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head.

"Let's not talk about their lunatic ideas." He pleaded, in the tone of someone who had had to push off at least 3 unwanted advances since the last meal, and it has made him queasy. "The one I'm talking about is Safa, Sefa, Sufa, something like that. I'm fairly sure I'm not the person she has been eyeing lately."

Merlin sighed. It was far too much to hope for afternoon of peace. It was as if Arthur believed Merlin had nothing more important to do than to listen to him raving about whatever -- serving girls and what not. Not that he had ever taken notice of any of them before, maybe it was some sort of gossip Merlin hadn't heard before, though it was weird that Arthur had. 

 "Do you mean Sefa?" he asked, defeatedly. There was no way he was going to be able to get anything done until Arthur had finished with whatever absurd conversation he had just come up with. He knew it from experience.

"Yes, that’s the one!” He shot Merlin a bright smile, and he could only shake his head. It would be easier if Arthur weren’t just so irresistible. Merlin could just ignore the prat and keep working, but there was something about the King that drew all eyes to him and, in spite of all the talk about his powers and destiny, Merlin was only human. “So, what do you think of Sefa? It's not that hard a question." 

Merlin frowned, looking the king up and down. Arthur looked far too invested in the outcome of his question. Merlin wondered briefly if he had been enchanted yet again -- he wouldn't put it past the girl or any of the others to slip him a love potion to try and get a crown out of it. It was, after all, what most though Gwen had done - and almost succeeded. It never occurred to them that she was just _that_ amazing in truth.

"She looks like a nice young girl, nothing much, why do you ask, sire?"

"So, would you say are you interested in her? Do you think she's somebody would like to spend time with?"

 Merlin actually laughed, shaking his head.

"If I didn't know you better I, would think you're trying to set me up with this girl."

"What? Me? Setting you up? Don't be an idiot, Merlin, not more than you have to be. I will admit some level of idiocy can be charming, but this is far too much. Why would you think that..."

"You know, why do you keep asking me about about Sefa? Is there anything you want from this conversation or are you just really bored?" Merlin interrupted, half amused and half exasperated. "Isn't King supposed to be a real job, with real tasks that do not include pestering your manservant about serving girls?"

 "I'll have you know I have a lot to do and I mean a lot. I just asked you if you liked her, that's hardly pestering."

"It feels like it from where I'm standing," Merlin pointed out, amused.

"So just answer the question!"

"If I like her! I barely know her! It may surprise you, sire, but I don't have a lot of time left for socialising between you and Gaius!"

"Right, so you hadn't noticed that she is batting her eyelashes at you?" 

"What, at me?" Asked Merlin, caught completely off guard. "You must be completely - have you been drinking?" 

"I'm not the one who tends to drop their jobs in the middle of the day and get to the tavern, Merlin,” Arthur pointed out, his hands on his hips, the lines of his arm muscles clear on his exposed forearms.

"For the last time, I don't —” Merlin wanted to kill Gaius for the frequent excuse, but the old man could not be solely blamed for it. It was a good excuse. “Nevermind. No, I hadn't noticed it and honestly, why are you so concerned with it?"

"So you won't mind if I send her to Tintagel?" Arthur ignored his question, and the surprise in his eyes. "I think Gwen could use another maid." 

"No, no I wouldn't mind, why?" He frowned for a second, trying to make sense of the conversation. "Is this your way of asking for suitable servants recommendations?"

"Recommendations? From you? You know-"

"Changed my mind," Merlin informed, saucily. "I don't care what you want, just stop asking me questions, will you?"

The answer gave the king pause for all of half a second, before he stepped closer, crossing his arms against his chest and starting again.

"You know, you really should be more careful with your affections, Merlin, or you're going to end up breaking some poor girl's heart."

"I do not think -" He started, but the king interrupted him once again, raising his hand to stop the flow of words.

"She's just sort of girl you should be — I mean, it would be a pity if she got her heart broken because you were never honest about how you feel."

 "How I feel?” Merlin repeated, disbelieving. “Again, I don't feel anything! Look, do you have a fever or something, should I call Gaius?"

The manservant walked forward, forcing the king to sit down on a chair and checking his temperature with the palm of his hand. Arthur’s head felt warm to the touch, but nothing that would justify all the raving. Perhaps the insanity gene in the Pendragon line was getting to him a little early, though he had sounded perfectly reasonable before practising with the knights. Maybe someone had managed to knock him on the head — Merlin felt like it at least three times a day and would love the opportunity — even a playful blow from Percival could cause some serious damage to the brain; not that Arthur’s brain was ever that bright to begin with.

"The topic here is not how _I_ feel, but how _you_ feel, don't try and avoid it with medical nonsense!"

Merlin could only shake his head, walking away from where Arthur had sat and resumed tidying up. Arthur managed to leave an impressive trail of dirty clothing everywhere, especially considering he spent most of his day in chainmail.

"So, _why_ are you not interested in Sefa?" Merlin could only snort at that. Arthur was like an old dog with a bone, insisting even when he couldn't chew what was coming. "You said it yourself, she's a nice enough girl. Unless... Unless the _other_ rumours I've heard are true."

"I never knew I was interesting enough to warrant two different sets of rumours,” Merlin pointed out, rolling his eyes.

"Of course you are," Arthur scoffed. "You are the king's manservant, the most important and influential of all servants, and power _does_ attract gossip -"

"Power over your dirty rags?" Merlin mocked, because, how could he act otherwise? Arthur couldn't know just how right he was, or how it burned inside Merlin, consuming him in being so restrained. There was no way out of hurt but mockery. "Power over your bedpans?"

"The power of influence - the fact you have the ear of the king and can be heard at any time."

"Well, people must be talking about a different king, then, because King Arthur Clotpole never listens."

"That is not the point," Arthur interrupted, leaning backwards. "The point is - the other rumour around is that you and Gwaine are an item."

That made Merlin splutter, chocking in his own spit while his face caught on fire - almost literally, and trying to keep his magic in check just added to his distress. Arthur, the traitor, looked amused rather than worried.

"I see I got a sensitive spot," he added with a self-satisfied grin. "Is there some truth to the rumours after all?"

"I don't know where you get these ideas from!" Merlin answered, indignantly. "Didn’t you say that being king means a lot of important things to worry about, the well-being of a whole kingdom and all that? Why are you wasting your time listening to idle chatter about _servants_!"

"You wound me, Merlin," the king grinned, not looking bothered in the least. "I like to think I'm a king who thinks about what's best for his subjects — you being the case in point."

"Is this where you tell me that Gwaine is a bad influence and that I should stay away from him?"

"Those are valid points, but -" The king’s admittance made Merlin incredibly angry, his petty competitions with Gwaine were an annoyance to everyone around them. It was as if — no, they _did_ get out of their way to annoy the other, involving everyone around. Merlin had never figured out just _what_ Arthur objected so much about Gwaine in particular, but the man was the best friend he had since Lancelot died, and he felt it was his duty to defend him — and himself, as well, because if he _chose_ to be an item with Gwaine, that would be his own business and certainly not the king’s.

"That I should not look among my betters, but to be realistic, and -"

"What?” Arthur looked as if the thought never crossed his mind. It made Merlin feel warm inside, because, of course Arthur was not like that, not for many years. “No. Though - does that mean you are interested?"

Merlin shook his head, refusing to answer. He wasn't going to let himself be baited into humiliation. 

"You may need a new hobby, sire," he said, instead, bending to pick up a stack of parchment from the floor. "I assure you my love life - or lack thereof - isn't that interesting."

As he stood up, Arthur, too, had moved from the bed and was standing over him. It made his skin tingle with an itch he could never scratch. 

"Maybe we need to change that," Arthur said, and his voice did _things_ to Merlin, his blood rushing down so quickly that his head was spinning, and he knew he just had to walk out of the room as quickly as possible. Merlin almost threw the rolls over the table, turning on his heels and marching away.

"Don't worry, sire, there's no one crazy enough on this kingdom," he spat, as self-deprecating as he could be, and walked out of the room before his body betrayed him too much.

He could overhear Arthur's voice from inside, still talking: "Are you calling me crazy?" but he did not stop to answer him. Only madness lay that way.

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	5. Chapter 5

 

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**Midsummer Season, 1 Year** **Before** **Camlann**

 

Although he had never doubted his sister's efficiency, Elyan was shocked at how quickly the whole party had to be made ready to go. Tintagel had been forewarned of their coming, but no one had had any inkling of the King’s intention of taking Morgana’s household along on his journey to Castle Maghhay.

It was no easy task to organise a royal escort, let alone two, and yet, it seemed to Elyan that Gwen hadn't broken a sweat in doing it. No more than two days after they arrived, they were ready to sail back towards Camelot’s shores. Arthur had wanted to leave even earlier, as soon as they were ready and the tide was favourable, but his sister had prevailed and said it would be unwise to cross during the evening, even though the crossing was but a couple of hours. Had it been only the knights, he would have pushed forward; they were all used to hardships and sleeping rough. Since there were ladies in attendance, the king had accepted that it might be better to cross at sunrise and push hard on the following morning in order to reach the foot of the White Mountains by evening.

Elyan was no strange to hard riding, and still he was surprised to find them going past the mountains and into the Monmouth state as the sun set the following day. The horses were all sweaty and breathless, and there was a haggard expression on his sister’s face. He helped her dismount, and felt how her legs trembled as her feet hit the ground. From the corner of his eye, he saw the king himself move to help Morgana, though she refused it, standing on her own two feet. Either she was a great pretender, or she was a much better horsewoman than Gwen. His sister did not bother pretending, but leaned into him, holding his arm strongly.

“What got into him?” she asked in a whisper, and there was no question of who she was referring to. “Is he expecting the Saxons to burst from the very earth?”

He rubbed her back strongly, trying to infuse her with his strength.

“Arthur organised this meeting to the tiniest details. I believe that, even though the talks are to be held on Midsummer, he said he’d arrive the evening before it.”

“Tonight,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Still, there’s something off about him.”

“Oh, there’s something off, alright,” Elyan agreed, happy to have someone to voice his worries. The two siblings were ready to walk away from the courtyard, arm in arm. “It’s not just Arthur, though. Merlin —”

“Has grown even more elusive than before?” she asked, looking around and at the bustle of their arrival, they could not see the king’s manservant anywhere. “I haven’t seen him since the night after you arrived in Tintagel, and even then, we barely had the chance to speak.”

“I don’t know that anyone speaks to him these days, certainly not the king,” the knight pointed out, his shoulders raised. “Though we know better than to ask — Leon did, I know, and almost got blasted for his troubles. They both insist everything is fine.”

“Fine!” Gwen scoffed, lowering the hood on her cape. “As if Arthur has ever done _fine_ without Merlin by his side. I wonder what happened…”

“I know no more than you do,” he guaranteed. “I was hoping you —”

The appearance of a young, red-haired maid interrupted his words. Elyan didn’t know what to do for a second, but it was clear that the girl was waiting on Gwen’s orders.

“Oh, Sefa, I’m glad to see you,” she gave the girl a smile. “That man over there in a yellow coat, he’s the Monmouth steward. His name’s Manny, I believe. Tell him you’re in charge of the Lady Morgana’s quarters, and make sure they’re properly aired and freshened up — I doubt supper will be longer than one hour, but do the best you can.”

“What about you, my lady?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll share Morgana’s bed tonight,” Gwen answered, squeezing her arm lightly. “Just tell them to leave my things there as well.”

The young woman curtsied, before leaving and Elyan couldn’t help but to look at his sister, his eyebrow raised.

“You could have your own rooms, you know?”

“Nonsense,” Gwen answered, the turn of her head making it clear that she was not willing to discuss the matter. “You were saying?”

“Oh, I think I just hoped you would have a better insight into what is the matter between the two of them and what is making Arthur so grim — I mean, besides Saxons. He looks… I’ve never known Arthur to be afraid, and now he looks — almost hollow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite like this.”

“No, neither have I,” she agreed, disentangling herself. “I’m not going to go poking around to satisfy your curiosity,” Gwen warned, and Elyan couldn’t help but laugh.

“I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“And don’t go thinking I’ll get anywhere, I got pushed away quite strongly when I last tried to talk to Merlin, so, don’t hold your breath. I’m just _worried_.”

“We’re all worried,” Elyan answered, looking away. “If it means that there’s more coming than what Arthur said…”

“I don’t think it’s the case,” his sister answered, shaking her head. “No, I think it has _nothing_ to do with Saxons and war. No, this is something else. Leave it to me.”

She turned on her heels and left, not allowing him the chance to say anything else. Elyan walked inside the keep, following the general directions given to all knights, and tried to get some food on his belly. The corn bread was a bit burnt, and the apples were over-sweet, but he washed it down with grainy brown ale and settled down on the small cot he had been assigned in the guards’ barracks along with the other knights. Although he was far too tired, sleep eluded him, as he kept turning things to his head.

The truth was that Camelot had faced many threats since he had become a knight, but none were so great as the Saxons themselves. Morgana had been a formidable opponent in her own way, but she had wanted the power of Camelot’s throne, and that did not exist without its people. Even in the height of her terrors, she had not been willing to sacrifice too many of them. The Saxons, on the other hand, wanted the land itself to feed their starving families and would gladly decimate their people and call it compost.

It was not an easy truth to face, but it must be faced. Without the help of all — or at least most — of Albion kings, without a united front to face the enemy, they’d fall one by one until nothing was left of the life they led. The very thought was unfathomable, and yet, so very close to coming through. He could certainly understand why the king was preoccupied, but there was comfort to be had in the way things were always done — and it was sadly lacking when the normally approachable king was remote and brooding.

Elyan did not talk to his sister in the following morning, Arthur had them up and back on the road as soon as the sun rose. Still, he did not need to talk to her to see she was trying to work her magic on Merlin, and from the pained look in Arthur’s face, he realised she must have enlisted Morgana’s help in her endeavours. Between the two of them, he was sure they’d soon figure out what was bothering the King so much.

The Maghhay castle was less than a three-hour ride from the estate they had slept in, but in less than two they could see it on the horizon. It wasn’t a royal seat, but a war outpost, set on a ledge on a south-facing hillside. There was a single tower, as large as Camelot’s, and similarly round, but worked in yellow stone bricks where the citadel was white-washed. They could barely see the other shorter building, nested as it was between two rocky mounds. The largest part of the construction was probably the bailey, but they could not see it from afar, for the crowns of the trees hid it from view.

As they came closer, they heard the sound of hooves and hounds, and upon encircling one of the hills, they saw a party of nobles returning from an early hunt. Camelot’s party was barely more than a dozen, between servants, knights and all, and the hunting party was at least twice this size. The royal banners from Gawant and Dyfed flew in the air, and Arthur had one of the knights sound the horn to announce their approach, lest there was some misunderstanding.

The hunting party made a stop on a cliff overlooking their path, and, though it led them away from their final destination, Arthur sent his own party towards them. It was not Elyan’s speciality, but he suspected that doing anything else would have been a great offence. As they approached, one thing was clear: they were greatly outnumbered. Between the King, his sister, knights and servants, they were barely more than a dozen, while the hunting party was at least twice that number. It made him uneasy, but Arthur rode ahead as if it did not bother him and they could do nothing but follow his suit.

Elyan had never actually met King Olaf apart from a brief sighting of him on Queen Elena's wedding . The man was not very impressive with his bald hair, bushy eyebrows and the look of someone who is perpetually angry. He stood on the top of his horse, looking over them as if they were all children and he alone was worth of notice. The knight’s eyes, however, were immediately drawn to his daughter instead. Lady Vivian was often said to be the most beautiful woman of the five kingdoms. The stories about her appearance had been one of the main topics among knights when attending Gawant’s royal wedding, but, in getting there, they had been disappointed by the thin, lacklustre girl who had sat at the dais.

Now, though, she was everything that gossip suggested she was — impossibly beautiful. Her hair fell as a golden cascade over her shoulders, the curls delicate and perfect where Morgana’s were wild; with rosy lips and cheeks around a gentle nose. The biggest difference, perhaps, were in her eyes — not the colour, which was the same blue as before, but the look they held. She was wearing a light, flowing dress of a fabric so elegantly woven that one could see the trees through the folds of her long sleeves; which fell alongside her body without hiding her arms. It seemed that the whole thing would disappear as smoke, though it was held in place by golden belt and shoulder pads, forged in such an intricate pattern as to dazzle even a smith’s son. The blood red of the fabric, along with the metals and jewellery she wore, made her look almost like an ancient goddess, and Elyan could barely pay attention to the exchange in front of him, for all his thoughts were of her.

“Well met, King Arthur,” Olaf’s voice boomed, though it did not sound friendly. “The crown seems to suit you,” there was a small pause, almost amused, but Elyan could only think of the way Lady Vivian pressed her lips more closely together. “As manners never did, it seems. You hadn’t warned me you’d be bringing your witch of a sister to this meeting.”

The harshness of his words managed to shatter the spell of Vivian’s beauty; and the knight flinched so deeply that it startled his mount. He wondered for a moment if Arthur would take offence to the point of leaving, and the king _had_ pulled back the reigns of his horse, stopping further away than etiquette dictated. Morgana, on the other hand, stood tall and proud as if the words of lesser men could not harm her. For an eternal moment, they all waited to see what would happen — and, in the end, it wasn’t either Pendragon who broke the silence _or_ who put the king in his place.

“Father!" Lady Vivian's voice was like a whip, chastising the old man with a single word. Olaf grew pale, and lowered his head a bit, as if accepting the reprimand.

"I mean no offence," he said, though he could not possibly mean anything but. "I just did not prepare quarters grand enough for another lady of high station."

"Worry not about it," Morgana's voice was filled with contempt. "I've slept in far worse places than whatever room you assign me."

"No," Lady Vivian interrupted, throwing her father a dark look. "My father may be senile enough to forget how greatly in your debt we are, but I am not. I'll see that you stay on my own quarters.”

“Or in mine,” offered Queen Elena, with a smile. Although Elyan had _known_ she was next to Olaf and his daughter, his brain hadn’t managed to register her presence. Now that she spoke, he noticed that she looked even happier and more peaceful than in her wedding; there was some sort of glow in her expression that turned her shrill voice into something pleasing.

“Nonsense,” dismissed Vivian, with a small smile to the Queen. “You are very well married and there’s no need to disrupt your marital bliss — while I could have no better company than my maids; it is no hardship, I assure you, to share my set of rooms with an intelligent, courtly woman such as Lady Morgana.”

Morgana bowed gracefully towards Vivian, who was now smiling openly at the same woman her father had insulted but a moment ago. Gwen, by his side, seemed as speechless as Olaf and Arthur.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think Morgana didn’t just break the love spell over her, but did a complete personality transplant.”

“Love spell?” He repeated, but his sister just shook her head, not willing to explain.

“So, the food for out banquet is settled, and so are our beds, should we move to the castle to discuss that which isn’t so easily solved?” Asked Lord Uriens, and his wife smiled at him.

“Well said,” King Olaf did half a shrug, as if he couldn’t find fault with the plan. “Welcome to my domains, Pendragons, I extend you the full hospitality of Castle Maghhay.”

“Doesn’t sound like much,” Elyan muttered to Gwen, and she stiffed a giggle even as Arthur did his best to sound gracious and accepting.

It was good to hear her laugh, for Guinevere’s happiness had always meant bright days ahead. Now, as the Saxons amassed at their shores and kings bickered as bullying teens, the sound of her mirth might be the only beacon in a growing darkness.

 

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**Mabon Season, 4 Years Before Camlann**

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Arthur had always believed that he was _good_ at seducing people — in fact, he had been given to understand many times that he was irresistible. Therefore, he was completely at loss as to _why_ and _how_ Merlin had failed to understand the implications of him saying that the matters of his heart should be attended to.

Then again, perhaps Merlin _was_ that dense. It was, undoubtedly, part of his charm; the way he circled between incredibly wise and just plain idiotic. There was a special _look_ in his face whenever he was faced with something which should be obvious and still eluded him that always made Arthur want to chuckle. Just thinking about it made him feel lighter.

Lighter, in fact, was a good way to describe how Arthur felt ever since his conversation with Gwaine in the tavern. His intentions, initially, were to just get general advice on differentiating fondness, infatuation and love. In hindsight, which one was the case was quite obvious, so incredibly obvious that he was not sure just _how_ he had spent so long without noticing that his yearning for Merlin whenever he wasn’t around was far more significant than if he were just another servant, or even just a friend.

No, he remembered all too well when he thought he had lost Merlin for good, the days sending searching parties with decreasing hope, the recklessness and desperation that had led him to go looking for Merlin himself when all told him to simply let him go. He remembered thinking that they did not understand — it wasn’t as easy as all that, just accepting that Merlin was _gone_ because if he _were_ gone, it would be Arthur’s fault and the hole left behind by his absence was like missing a limb. Didn’t they know that Merlin was the person he could trust above all else? Didn’t they know that, for all the brave, skilled men in Camelot, there was no one else he’d rather have at his side? His back would be bare without Merlin’s presence, so he had taken his horse and plunged into the woods, because the alternative was too terrible for words.

And then — then — as if there were some golden magic line connecting them, against all odds, they had found each other again. Relief was too small a word for the way Arthur’s chest expended, as if for the first time in days he could truly breathe. He could remember running ahead, giddy, and enfolding the too thin man in between his arms, mud and all. It didn’t matter that his father would have said such attitudes were beneath his dignity, nothing mattered but that Merlin was _there_ : living, breathing, _whole_. _His_.

It should have been so obvious, but Arthur had never even allowed himself to consider it.

Now, though, he could not deny it anymore, and did not want to. He knew _who_ he wanted to have and he was willing to fight for it, even if it meant fighting to get it into Merlin’s thick head (because, really, for all that he said that _Arthur_ was a dollophead, he wasn’t that far behind, clearly). The man spent the first week after his failed attempt at wooing making plans as to how get the message across to Merlin and failing to figure out how, exactly, he should go about it.

He had never tried to woo a man before, and, even if he _did_ call Merlin a girl’s petticoats on regular basis, it did not mean he would fall for the whole flowers-and-food routine he normally used. Not to mention, of course, that it normally had fallen to Merlin the whole finding-food thing, and Arthur doubted that he would appreciate being sent on an errand in order to woo himself. There were a thousand small moments in which he felt it ready to burst from him — that it seemed like the words he had never even dared to say to anyone else would spill from his lips regardless of his efforts to keep silent.

Every small moment was like torture, an immense struggle not to just say it — simply say it, as if it were natural, simple, obvious. It was hard to stay quiet when Merlin laughed at something he said and the whole world came alive. It was hard not to shout it when he looked over after having done some particularly spectacular move during practice and Merlin merely shook his head with a smirk, unimpressed. It was hard not to whisper it against the careful, caring way Merlin fastened his armour, or the rebellious way he listened to orders.

He could have, of course, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to say it, but to _show_ how he felt, in the perfect moment that he kept trying to build in his head, the one that would make sure Merlin would forever be head over heels for him.

Although these thoughts permeated all his days, they were the furthest thing on Arthur’s mind when he walked into the armoury near sunset on the eve of Mabbon’s festival. A small delegation from the kingdom of Benoic would be arriving in the morning for the festivities among other reasons, and Geoffrey had just mentioned that they had the custom of holding archery competitions during the festival. Arthur had decided to check if they could honour their tradition during the visit, and went himself into the armoury to see to it.

It surprised him to see Merlin inside it, sitting on a corner, his back turned to the door. Arthur knew his manservant hated all sorts of war pursuits and found tourneys to be the epitome of silliness (“You bat on each other with metal sticks and pretend you’re doing something different from what you did twenty years ago.” “What sort of barbarians do you think we are? I did not use things to hit other children twenty years ago.” “Right, as if you could fool me…” “Anyway, _Mer_ lin, you wouldn’t understand. There’s a skill involved, a dispute —” “There’s a skill involved in tending to horses, and cooking, and sewing, but you don’t see anyone holding a baker’s tournament! Just admit that you _like_ to feel superior and —” “I admit _nothing_ of the sort!”… They had spent the best part of an hour arguing about it, and nothing had changed. It didn’t matter how often he told Merlin it was about showing his people he could protect them, about leadership and courage, he just wouldn’t accept it), so he found it rather strange to find him inside.

The dark-haired man was leaning forward, the purple shirt he had recently taken a liking to stretched over his back as his hands moved vigorously in circles. Arthur could barely see the armour in his hands, but he was obviously polishing it until it shone, completely focused on the task at hand. There was such a dedication in his eyes that the king felt as if he were intruding on a private moment — but, nonsense. It was his own armour, and his own castle, and he should _say_ something, not dash away like some scared gazelle.

“You do realise you don’t have to do this yourself, yeah?” The king asked, and Merlin jumped a whole foot in the air upon listening his voice. The breastplate fell from his hands on the floor with a loud metallic clatter.

“Gods, sire!” He barked, shaking himself and bending to pick up the plate. “If you are trying to get yourself a new manservant, there are easier ways than murder by fright!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Merlin,” Arthur chided, because it really wasn’t that much of a problem. He didn’t _always_ sneak upon Merlin, and if he did, well, Merlin should be readier for it by now. “I’ll ask again — you know you don’t have to do this, yes? Old Anderson _did_ explain it all to you before retiring, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean?” demanded Merlin, one of his hands resting on his hip while still clinging to the damp cloth that he had been using.

“You know — I’m sure Old Anderson explained that, as the king’s manservant, you’re not expected to do it all by yourself, but to delegate some tasks to other Royal Household servants and focus on those in which you can be of best service to, well, me.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” the manservant’s voice was dismissive, and he looked down again, settling the breastplate on the top of a work table. “No, yes, he _did_ tell me.”

“You’re not trying to do it all by yourself, are you?” Alarm crossed Arthur’s mind, and he wondered if he just hadn’t missed all the signs of Merlin being overworked — again.

“No, no,” Merlin shook his head, but it wasn’t very convincing. “He _did_ tell me, and I think it’s all very reasonable, yes.”

“But…?” Arthur prodded, and Merlin looked up as if he had no idea what to say.

“What makes you think there even is a but?”

“There’s always a but with you,” Arthur teased. “Unless you have a secret love of polishing that you never shared with anyone but George.”

Merlin stuck his tongue out, making a face at the king. He would never forgive Arthur for forcing him to live with George and his terrible jokes. It made him chuckle, and the manservant smiled back at him, something at once fierce and soft lurking in his eyes.

“No, far from it. It’s just —” Merlin took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly as if he wasn’t sure if he should speak or not. “It’s not just any task. It’s your armour, your safety. I wouldn’t — I can’t just leave that in somebody else’s hands.”

There was something so incredibly open, so simple in his voice that it took Arthur’s breath away. Merlin’s head was lowered, staring at the metal in front of him, avoiding the king’s eyes and whatever he thought he would find in his face. A flush spread through his cheekbones to his neck, up the curve of his prominent ears, and still he did not know what to say, how to react. He did not feel worthy of such devotion, but that _was_ Merlin: the one person who had believed in Arthur when no one else thought him worth of notice for himself; the one person that had never left his side, the one person that made him become everything he had ever wanted to be and never known how to. He said the only thing he could, the only prayer his mind sang lately.

“Merlin —”

“I know it sounds foolish and sentimental,” Merlin insisted, finding the courage to look up and straight at the king, standing up. “But I couldn’t bear — I can’t bear the very thought that something might happen to you, even more so that, if it does, I might have prevented it from happening. So, no, even hating everything related polishing, I’m not leaving this task to anyone else.”

Once again, Arthur couldn’t find the words to express what he felt, what he thought. Sometimes, words were just not enough. Instead, he captured the servant’s hand over the hard metal of the armour, making him drop it on the floor. The king didn’t not care about it at all, he could just pull the other man’s body close and enveloped it in a hug, keeping him close. He had never expected Merlin to stay so still in his embrace, not when he was a naturally warm person, but eventually, he noticed that the other man was shocked.

“You don’t do hugs,” he whispered, blinking slowly, his dark eyelashes against pale skin. “You’ve never hugged me before…”

Arthur frowned at this, pulling back to look straight at the servant.

“I _have_ hugged you before,” he gently reminded the man, trying to hide how it hurt that he had forgotten. “Covered in mud and out of a bog, I have never been more relieved to see anyone in my life,” he pulled his head back, staring at Merlin from up close. “Don’t you remember?”

Merlin’s eye got a strange glint, like a stab of pain, before he replied.

“It’s not the same. You didn’t think I was dead now.”

“No,” he agreed, smiling gently, and finally the words came. “No, I was thinking you’re what keeps me not only living, but alive.”

Merlin’s eyes widened a bit in surprise, but Merlin’s lips drew his eyes with a force that he could not resist. The very sight of them made his mouth tingle, his whole body vibrating with _want_ that went far beyond lust, as if his whole being was calling for Merlin, as if he were a man walking on a desert and finally seeing water. Arthur couldn’t help but wet his own lips with his tongue before managing to look up, and he caught a glimpse of Merlin’s eyes, pupils blown wide, his breathing faster, and then —nothing. Everything.

Time ceased to have meaning, an eternal moment that passed by so quickly he couldn’t even register it; Merlin’s lips were on his and he could not breathe, could not think, could not _be_. Arthur _thought_ he hadn’t been the one to move ahead, but he could never, would never be sure of it: there was no separation between them anymore. There was just one thing, a whole, made of the two of them, connected by their trembling mouths, eager tongues that touched even though Arthur couldn’t remember moving at all. Merlin’s body was a magnet, and he could not resist it: he pulled the man closer, crushing him. He felt the servant’s sharp intake of breath against his mouth, but they were still kissing, melting, melding.

And it was _perfect_. It was nothing like he had imagined, dreamed, hoped. It was _better_ for it was _real_ , filled with glitches. They both warred for dominance, wanted more, they defied each other in kissing as in talking, and it was delicious, it made his skin burn and his soul thaw. It was more than he had dared to imagine.

It was over as suddenly as it had started. For a second, it felt like falling into an eternal abyss; like missing some essential part of himself. Then, Arthur was back into his own body, in the armoury, still dazed even as Merlin looked at him like a scared doe. They stared at each other, incredulous, then the servant was turning on his heels and dashing away with a clatter of metal and no words to explain.

Arthur was left with only the echoes of iron against stone as a witness to the pain he felt.

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**Midsummer Night, 1 Year Before Camlann**

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When Gwen had decided to enlist Morgana's help in figuring out what was making Arthur and, yes, Merlin act so weirdly, marching into the quarters that had been assigned to the king on Maghhay castle as if the man had committed some unspeakable offense was not what she had in mind. Then again, she _had_ known Morgana for most of her life and probably should have expected nothing less. The only thing left for her to do was follow her mistress into the room. Morgana had traded her dark riding gown for a velvet one coloured like strong wine that swirled around her ankles as she strode into the room as if she owned it. 

Inside, the king was reading a parchment by the hearth, while Merlin troubled himself with organizing the clothes into a beautifully carved chest. Both men looked up at their entrance, startled out of their duties. The other woman took in the scene in a swift glance and raised her chin towards the manservant.

"Leave us."

Morgana's haughty tone shocked Gwen to the core, not even when she had been deeply under Morgause's influence had she treated Merlin thus, as if he were just another serving boy. In fact, even at her worst, Morgana had been at the very least polite to them. Not only that, the fact that Merlin meant more to Arthur than any other had been an open secret at Camelot from the manservant's early days there, for it had been but a few weeks before the pair had been willing to risk their lives so the other would live. Merlin looked, clearly offended, from her to Arthur, and the king answered with just a small nod, prompting him to obey. It was, obviously, not the response Merlin was expecting from the way he looked rebellious. He shot Gwen a look that was proficient in asking her to make sure no harm came to Arthur, and she asserted with her head.

Neither Pendragon sibling seemed to have noticed their exchange. Morgana was standing utterly still, judgement in her eyes as she watched Arthur fold the parchment meticulously. Gwen knew the king well enough to notice he was trying to avoid his sister, even if he had no idea what had brought her over. Morgana’s elegant eyebrow was raised in a manner that would have made Gaius proud when the man finally looked up at them.

“I cannot believe you let me just send him away,” she said, and there was no doubt at to who the “he” in question was. Arthur looked thoroughly puzzled at her comment.

“ _You_ sent him away,” he pointed out. “Speaking to him as if he were — a stranger.”

“And you _let_ me,” Morgana insisted, sitting on the armchair and putting her hands in her lap. “Care to tell me what was _that_ about?”

“I figured you needed some privacy?” Arthur sounded unsure even to Gwen’s ears, Morgana wouldn’t have been convinced by it in a million years.

“Privacy!” The dark-haired woman sneered, shaking her head. “When have you ever had considered _Merlin_ to be someone that would _invade_ privacy?”

“You didn’t come here to talk about him,” the king tried to evade the topic.

“In fact, I did.”

It was clear that, whatever Arthur _was_ expecting, it wasn’t _this_. Morgana looked over to Gwen, and the two of them exchanged a look of exasperation. _Men_! Arthur was gaping at her, and his sister decided to give him time enough to compose himself — unexpectedly merciful of her. The man stood up, looking at the fire, and Morgana let him be for the moment.

“Don’t you just stand there, Gwen, come and sit down,” she patted the chair next to her. Normally, Gwen would have already sat, but she also knew that this was _not_ their bedroom. Arthur just nodded at them absentmindedly, and she joined Morgana. It was nicely warm that close to the fireplace.

“So, what _is_ the problem with you two?” Gwen prodded, gently. It was a game she and Morgana had played many times before, balancing each other out. The woman’s fingers brushed over hers on the chair with a rush of warmth and magic. “Did Merlin disapprove of your idea of asking Morgana to help? Is that why you two arrived at Tintagel acting as if the other didn’t exist?”

It was clear that the man still did not trust Morgana, and even less now that she was free of her magical constrains. _He_ had no way of knowing that, yes, it had restrained Morgana’s magic, but not completely cut it out of her, not after the first few weeks. She wouldn’t have been able to do any complex bit of magic, but she could do enough to hurt if she wanted to, to run away if she wanted to. Morgana had chosen to stay as much as she had once chosen to leave them behind. Gwen liked to think she was in some way part of the reason why.

Arthur, however, just jerked his head in a stiff negative.

“I hadn’t told him.”

It was Morgana’s turn to grow tense. She shot Gwen a look that spoke volumes, about how she was second-guessing her acceptance and even Arthur’s offer. She had been ready to stand up to Merlin’s prejudices, and now she probably didn’t know what to think. Gwen, herself, was speechless — she couldn’t remember the last time Arthur had taken a serious decision without talking to Merlin and hearing his input; not since the whole Carleon debacle. It wasn’t that the king was unable to make up his own mind, but listening to advice had always been one of the pillars of Arthur’s reign, and it had all started with one bumbling boy defying him on a summer afternoon, almost ten years before.

“You _are_ stupid,” Morgana hissed, and Arthur looked at her startled. “I cannot _believe_ you pushed him away from you because of a lover’s spat.”

Arthur’s face grew flushed immediately.

“It’s not a _lover’s_ spat,” he tried to argue, and she raised her hand, interrupting him.

“ _Please_ , don’t even — don’t try to deny it. _Everyone_ and their mother know that he’s _far more_ than your manservant, he was _always_ more than that.”

“I —” words failed the king, and he shook his head. “I mean, I never — It isn’t—” He looked at Gwen, as if pleading for her help, and she would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious. “Does _everyone_ have nothing to do but to speculate about my private life?”

“You _are_ the king,” Gwen reminded him, as tenderly as she could. Morgana, on the other hand, snorted.

“The only two people who haven’t known for a decade that you and Merlin are in love with each other are you and Merlin!”

Arthur looked from one of them to the other, and Gwen couldn’t hold back a smile. Her friend rolled her eyes at her brother’s obliviousness.

“Really?” He asked. “Everyone? Always?”

“Yes,” Gwen agreed, lowering grinning. “Always.”

“Did _you_ know…? Even when…?” Arthur’s voice trailed off, clearly not feeling too secure about bringing up their failed romance. Sometimes, he was far too precious, and she felt her heart swelling with love for the man, though not the type she had once wanted to nurture for him.

“Yes,” she answered, softly, because it was the truth and there was no point in lying.

“And still you agreed to —” he made a gesture with his hand, semi-circles in the air, that she took to mean “getting married,” and nodded.

“Well, I always thought that there was space in one’s heart for more than one person, more than one love — even if it’s at the same time.”

It would have been impossible to say such a sentence without looking over at Morgana, and she was looking back at Gwen, her eyes full of words that didn’t need to be said. Morgana was fierce and a fighter, and scorching hot when challenged, but now she was warmth, enveloping Gwen and keeping her safe in a small smile that was all the more precious because it was so rare. Their fingers reached to each other of their own accord, and, for a moment, everything else faded away and it was just the two of them.

The king cleared his throat, and Gwen was back at Castle Maghhay, and his whole face ached with longing for _that_. It was obvious that he missed Merlin far more than he dared to admit out loud.

“I meant, it was no _lover’s_ spat,” he repeated, his voice subdued, and his eyes never meeting theirs, taking refuge in the flames. “Not that we were not — that I don’t — I didn’t mean we were just master and servant. What I meant was that — it was not a silly thing, not a squabble over jealousy, bickering over every day things or even a falling out because of politics. It was more serious than that.”

“What was it, then?” Gwen asked, and when Arthur looked up at her to answer, she saw in his eyes the way his soul was torn into shreds.

“He lied to me,” he said, simply, as if it were enough to tear apart the bonds of love, loyalty and hope that had tied them together.

“About?” Morgana prompted, and there was an emptiness in Arthur’s eyes that was terrible to behold.

“Everything.”

Arthur said nothing more for a moment, and though Gwen had no magic of her own, she could almost feel Morgana feeling around for her brother’s emotions, trying to understand what could have possibly have led to such a strong declaration. Not having any way of figuring it out on her own, Gwen decided to ask.

“What do you mean by that?”

The king blinked away the tears that had swollen on his eyes and did not face her.

“About what he was — about who he is.” Arthur’s eyes went straight to his sister, and the woman sat up straighter, her face growing pale.

“No… I don’t believe that —”

Arthur confirmed whatever Morgana had suspected with a small jerk of his head. She curled her delicate fingers into her palms, and the king looked away again, as if he couldn’t bear to speak of it and had to pretend he was only talking to himself.

“It was an ordinary day — I don’t know, just. Nothing special. Just after the first spring thaw. I had been on a meeting with the tanner’s guild, it ended up earlier than I expected. I was so tired, all I wanted was to get to my rooms, and —” Arthur sigh was almost a hiccup. “I recall Lady Mirylla had been bothering me about bringing her daughter to court… She was loitering around my room’s corridor, so I turned around and took the servant’s entrance. The door was open, so I knew Merlin was inside. I thought I’d surprise him, it would be good, we could — I tip toed in. He was setting up the fireplace, you know? Putting the logs in position. And then, just like that, there was a fire on. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I mean, of course I had seen it done before, but it’s different, you know?”

“He did it,” Morgana murmured, and Arthur nodded still looking away.

“It was unlike anything I have ever seen — and his eyes, his _eyes,”_ he looked at his sister, like a man pleading, and Gwen’s head was spinning with it all. “It wasn’t like you or Morgause, or any other magic user I had seen before. They weren’t just bright — it was… It was like molten gold, shining through, and I had never _seen_ him before. He was a _stranger_ _,_ that man who has been by my side for a decade, and I never…” A shudder ran through his body, as if he couldn’t believe he had spoken of it at all.

“What happened, then?” Gwen asked, a morbid curiosity taking hold of her, and she couldn’t even begin to understand what she was hearing — Merlin? Magical?

“He saw me, of course,” Arthur confessed, looking at his own feet. “His face, it was — you know, so many people have betrayed me,” he didn’t point out the obvious, that the two people who he was confiding on now had been part of those numbers. “I thought I could have faced anything else, but _him…_ And Merlin stands up, like some, some, some… some _clumsy idiot_ and tells me _it’s not what it looks like_!” Arthur snorted, as if he still couldn’t believe what had happened. “What else would that be? Does he really think I’m _that_ stupid? And when I tell him that, he just — he _turns around and leaves!_ Just like that!”

Morgana had grown incredibly quiet next to them, so Gwen kept on talking.

“What did he say, later?”

“Nothing,” Arthur’s answer was as desolate as his face. “He said nothing at all. Just — acted like nothing happened.”

“What about you?” she asked, because she knew better than to think that the king was free of blame.

“Me?” He asked, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him. “What could _I_ say? Every time the subject has come up he just — he acts as if nothing ever happened. Nothing.”

“And you’re telling me you’re just _okay_ with that?” Gwen could not believe it, and Arthur shrugged, as if he were at a loss of what to do.

“I tried — well, not to talk to _him_ , because doesn’t _he_ have to talk to _me_? All I could wrestle from Gaius was that it wasn’t — he was _born_ like this, Gwen. He has been lying to me this whole time.”

“Born?” The word seemed to be wrestled out of Morgana, and she rose, trembling with emotions she could barely keep in check, her nails deep in the flesh of her palms. “All this time?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, and she turned around, without another word, walking away. Gwen felt completely torn between staying with Arthur and following Morgana. The king looked so small, sitting on the chair, that she decided that he probably needed her more than Morgana. She had long lived with the anger, and the betrayal was still fresh in Arthur’s heart. She leaned forward and held his hand, trying to comfort him as much as she could.

“I just don’t understand, though,” Arthur said, after a few moments of silence. “Why would he not _tell me_? Did he really think I would — I changed the law. And even _before,_ didn’t he know how much I valued him? Did he think I would… Have him killed? Let my father kill him? Kill him myself?”

“It’s not that simple,” Gwen said, because even if it shocked her, she _could_ understand why Merlin wouldn’t say anything. “You’re thinking like a king — like a prince. Merlin was a servant and we… Life’s not fair to us. Not that easy. You could not always protect us. We had to learn to protect ourselves.”

“Did you know?” He asked, looking up at her for the first time.

“No,” she shook her head to emphasise her point. “But Arthur… Even those you loved have been hurt because of your stand on magic. I can well understand why he felt he needed to keep it a secret — you hated him at first, remember? And then… Then it was too dangerous. And by the time you changed the law, how could he just come clean? How do you _say_ something like that?”

The two of them were quiet, trying to contemplate keeping such a secret. Gwen could not imagine herself living like it, and it _did_ make her wonder about a number of things, but it _didn’t_ change who Merlin was, not really. Morgana had taught her that in these last three years. And, there was one thing she had never doubted in all this.

“One thing I’m sure, though,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Whatever secrets Merlin kept, he gave himself to you thoroughly — heart, soul and, if he has it, magic too. He might have lied, and the betrayal must hurt terribly… But he _is_ loyal. And he _loves_ you. Even if he doesn’t know how to face _this_. And so do you, Arthur. You _love_ Merlin, in a complete, all-encompassing way. You couldn’t even send him away. You don’t want to. So why don’t you… try? He’s too scared to speak, Arthur. So you must speak first. Even if it’s hard, even if it hurts. Speak to him, Arthur… Who knows what’s coming with all those Saxons? Do you really want to face battle with that gap between you? Without him really by your side?”

Arthur took a deep breath that shook him from inside, and she could feel in the tiny contraction of his muscles the moment her words got to him. The king gave her the smallest of all nods and dropped her hand.

“Thank you, Guinevere,” he said, looking at her with a glint of hope and desperation in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Gwen knew a dismissal when she saw one. She stood up and curtsied, wondering if he was going to follow her advice after all.

 

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	6. Chapter 6

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**Mabon Eve, 4 Years** **Before** **Camlann**

One thing that Gaius had never appreciated were dramatic entrances. In his old age, he was growing even more intolerant to those. Maybe it was just because Merlin was so given to them, rushing inside and banging the door open as if he was trying to turn it to dust — which he had, in fact, done two or three times. Luckily, repairing things with his magic had been one of the first things the boy had learnt how to do, and much needed too, because he _was_ clumsy. At this age, Gaius would have expected him to have grown out of it, but it was not the case.

He looked up from the cauldron where he was trying to concoct an herbal tincture to treat the worst symptoms of hay fever and towards his young protegee. His skin was pale, but there were large splashes of red in his cheekbones and his lips were swollen. Naturally, Gaius’ eyebrows rose at the sight of him. He had never known Merlin to try and snog scullery maids or stable hands before, but he expected it was just a matter of time.

That is, if he could take his eyes away from the King long enough to remember that there _were_ other people in the world.

“If you think we don’t have enough firewood as it is, Merlin, I’m sure you could find more without trying to turn our doors into splinters,” He pointed out, but the younger man did not seem to listen to him. He stood where he was, looking at nothing in particular, his breath rapid, blind to Gaius.

A silent Merlin was unusual, and it worried the old man. He glanced at his preparation, and decided that it could be left to rest for a few moments, so he hobbled towards his apprentice, wondering if his leg would have healed enough when winter came for it not to bother him. He pressed his hand against Merlin’s forehead, and it startled the boy, waking him up from whatever daydream he was having. The younger man looked at him as if he didn’t know quite how he had gotten there.

“What’s gotten into you?” Gaius demanded, and Merlin shook his head.

“I’ve kissed Arthur,” the words rolled out of Merlin’s mouth as if he wasn’t sure he could hold them in any longer.

The physician just stared at the boy, unsure that he had heard it correctly. He had _always_ known that his protegee was infatuated with the man he served, but between _that_ and going around _kissing_ the king, there was a huge gap. He could have throttled the man.

“Of all idiotic things!” Gaius threw his hands in the air. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

Merlin just shook his head, still disbelieving, which the physician could well understand. While there had been many almost suicidal acts in their shared past, none had been quite so astonishing as this one.

“I kissed Arthur,” he repeated, as if it could make it all more real. “At least — I think _I_ did — and he, he — well, he kissed me back!”

That gave Gaius true pause. _This_ he would never have truly expected. Not that it wasn’t evident in their every move that Arthur and Merlin loved each other, but society and expectations had played a huge role in Arthur’s upbringing. Even deciding to court Gwen had been pushing against the conditioning as much as he could, but Merlin? That feelings had laid in their hearts was no revelation; but that they had been acted on was astonishing. It made Gaius feel incredibly old, but also warm inside.

“Ah,” was all he said, with a light slap on Merlin’s arms. “I see.”

He smiled up at the apprentice, trying to show his love and support in face of obvious shock. It was clear, though, that Merlin’ s head was still stuck in the past, relieving every detail of the said kiss and committing it to memory. Gaius felt a slight pang in his heart at the sight — he could well remember how he felt when he had first kissed Alice, decades and decades ago. To this day, no feeling could quite compare. Merlin turned towards him, eyes bulging before he spoke.

“Someone must have given him a love potion!”

Gaius frowned. While not completely impossible, _that_ was certainly not the reaction he had been expecting, nor had it crossed his mind. Then again, sometimes Merlin was as quick to jumping to the conclusion magic was involved as Uther had been.

“ _You_ kiss him and _somehow_ that is because of a love potion someone slipped to the king?” He pointed out, and the boy looked at him for the first time, before giving a tiny nod.

“No, you’re right — _I_ must have taken it by mistake in tasting his food.”

The physician prided himself on being a reasonable, patient man, but sometimes his apprentice just used it all up at once. He couldn’t help but slapping the younger man’s head, to see if by rattling it, something on his brain started working.

“What?” Merlin squeaked, looking at him.

“I think we need look no further for the culprit of this said ‘love potion’,” Gaius barked. “It’s called _your heart_.”

“I would never!” the boy shook his head. “I don’t — I.”

“Are you trying to say that you wouldn’t kiss him in a million years?” Gaius offered, having had a long experience with youngsters and their denial.

“Yes!” Merlin spluttered, looking at the older man with indignation. “I wouldn’t, I—”

Gaius was an old man and had lived for far too long. His time was too precious to be hearing such nonsense. He turned around and limped back to his cauldron, trying to ignore the burst of protests and “never in my whole life” and so went on. He measured one of his ingredients in one of the vials, and mixed it in. He brought the vial to his nose, allowing Merlin’s chatter to wash over him because, really, he was _not_ the person that should be listening to it all. At that moment, he missed Lancelot; the way the knight managed to be at once direct and honourable would have helped Merlin to figure out what everyone else already knew, what Kilgharrah had known and said from Merlin’s very first foray into the dragon’s cave.

The two men were made for each other, two sides of the same coin.

“Gaius!” Merlin called, eventually, breaking the physician’s concentration. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I don’t need to,” he answered, truthfully. “You’ve been saying the same thing for at least five minutes, and not a single word out of your mouth was true. You’ll keep on saying them for a while until you can finally admit that you’ve been besotted —”

“Besotted!” Merlin spluttered, indignantly. “I’m not a _girl_ , I don’t —”

“Enamoured, smitten, however you want to put it. From the very first time you saw him…”

“He was a _prat_ ,” the boy protested, and Gaius did not bother to correct it. Arthur had been that and worse, an entitled bully who did his best to hide the good heart he had, the physician had despaired for the prince and for Camelot before Merlin had come along and brought out the best and worst in Arthur, like a miner finding a diamond from a rough rock.

“And yet, you could not keep your hands or eyes away from him,” he reminded the boy. “Not to say anything of your tongue.”

“My…” Merlin raised his hand, touching his mouth lightly, but now Gaius was going to say his mind.

“And Arthur was no better, stupid as he is! He could have gotten you both killed, because, no, he could not just imagine that you were not lying, I swear, I thought Uther would have you both dead in a tenday! Imagine that, confessing to have magic to the full council, and then Arthur comes in _lying to the king_ to save your worthless hide, truly! I don’t know how you two managed to survive all these years!”

“He was no better?” the younger man repeated, and Gaius sighed, exasperated.

“You know, you’re lucky I cannot breathe fire on you or you’d already be dust. I cannot imagine how Kilgharrah deals with your nonsense…”

“… Kilgharrah wouldn’t hurt me,” Merlin answered, but he was clearly distracted.

“Which shows that he has more sense than I’d expect from a dragon, but that’s not here nor there. You two are just incredibly dumb, near sighted, foolish —”

“Thanks, Gaius,” Merlin answered with a lunatic grin. “You’re absolutely right!”

The response was not what Gaius was expecting, and it robbed him of his momentum of complaining. The old man paused, unsure of what he was going to say next, but it didn’t matter. Merlin was not listening, smiling to himself as a man who had just found a chest filled with the greatest riches he could dream of.

And, perhaps, this was exactly what had happened. If only the two of them could stop being stupid for long enough.

Shaking his head, Gaius turned back to his tincture, mumbling about the idiocy of youth.

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**Midsummer Night, 1 Year**  
 **Before**  
 **Camlann**

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There was a part of Morgana that _knew_ she was not being sensible, but that little call, the voice of reason within, was silenced by the sheer force of her anger. It made her whole body vibrate and energy crackled around her ears. Her feet had gained a life of their own and pushed her forward through corridors of the castle she had never seen before. She knew nothing of the layout, and had no true idea of where she was going, but she didn’t _need_ to know.

Merlin was like a beacon, shining so brightly that she wondered just _how_ she had never seen it before. It went far, far beyond anything she had ever seen, his presence a living light in the mysterious darkness of magic. Her hatred and his misery created something of a line between the two of them, and the stone walls wouldn’t have stopped her.

She knew she was going to find him even before she stepped outside of the door. The long patio on the top of the building was similar to one of the Citadel’s best surveillance spots, Arthur’s favourite place in the castle from what she remembered. Maghhay might be smaller, but it stood on an imposing hill, commanding a view of the whole countryside around, looking into Dyfed as well as the neighbouring kingdoms of Gawant and Camelot. The man had been leaning over the battlements, looking out.

Morgana’s blood boiled in her chest, a pain so deep and so raw that, had she screamed, it would have been the growl of a wounded animal. Although she had made no sound, Merlin turned towards her, she could no more hide her presence from him at this state than he could now that she knew what she was looking for. And, worse of all, the rascal had dared to turn back towards her with an anguished face.

He, who had, for this whole decade, lied to her, to Gwen, to Arthur — to all of them.

He, who had fought, punished and killed his own people for the sake of a single man.

He, who had haunted her nightmares, made her powerless, and relished in her shackles.

He, who had loved and been loved, accepted, wanted and _still_ refused to admit to who he was.

He, who had tried to hide from her who _she_ was, just because it made his life easier.

He, who had offered her a friendly hand only after he had dipped it in poison.

The audacity of the man!

Instinct more than thought led her movements, raising her hand high and blasting him through the stone floor. Merlin flew, his limbs shaking, and landed far away from her, unhurt. It was not enough — no, he had to suffer, to feel the _pain_ , the agony that she had felt. Her hand closed slowly, the tips of her fingers coming together in the air a pulse of pure magic constricted his airway. The servant made no sound save for a low gasp, as if he were ready to accept whatever she planned to do.

His passive attitude made her feel sick to the stomach, and she let go of him. Merlin feel like a heap to the floor and looked up into her eyes.

“He told you.”

It was not a question, but a certainty. The memory of the whole night shone to her again, bringing a fresh wave of rage to her fingertips.

“Unlike you, he’s not a liar,” she shot back, and he didn’t deny it, looking down instead.

“And what are you going to do?” He asked, half defiance, half hope. “Kill me?”

Morgana laughed, a bitter sound against the cooling air. If only it were that simple. Years before, she probably would have not balked at murder, and may even have enjoyed it. Now, she knew that there were far worse things than death.

Namely, the truth.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” She asked, pushing him away a few meters with her magic. “It would mean you were right all along. It would _justify_ your attitude.”

“I’m not trying to justify anything,” he answered, one eyebrow raised. “I’m not sure I could, if I tried.”

“No,” she agreed, raising her hand to push him back again but, this time, Merlin rose his hand as well, and a shiny barrier appeared between them. “You’re just playing the poor, defenceless Merlin once again,” her emotions burnt hot, into a ball of fire that she hurled towards him, even knowing that he could keep it at bay. “You won’t fool me, though. Is anything about you true? Even your name’s a lie!”

“So you know — how the druids call me,” he asked, lowering the energy shield. “But whatever they say, Emrys is just a name. _Merlin_ is who I really am. I didn’t change.”

“That’s even worse,” she answered, wondering if he couldn’t understand just the size of his betrayal. “You were _always_ like me, and you _lied_!” the priestess pushed away with both her arms, and a blast of wind dragged him away. She kept on stepping closer and pushing, “You could have helped me, and you turned away!”

"I know,” he answered. “I’m sorry.”

Frustration rose within her and she screeched, finally reaching his body and pounding on his chest with her bare fists. Magic could only channel her anger so far, there were things that needed the release through a very physical world, and her pain was one of them. Merlin did not move to defend himself, and she kept on banging on his body without any sort of resistance from him. The act made something in her rise, something that she had kept locked for years and years, the memory of the girl who had liked, trusted, even _loved_ Merlin and that had been cruelly killed by his hands. Tears were falling from her eyes, a mix of sadness, impotency and rancour that washed away the blue shirt which might be the same one he was wearing at the occasion. And, just like then, he wrapped his arms around her.

“I was wrong,” he whispered against her hair. “I failed you — failed myself. I should never have… I should have told you. I should have stood by you.”

Instead of comfort, this just made her feel even more disgusted. She could feel the sourness in her mouth, and she pushed away from the treasonous embrace. Merlin’s arms were like a prison, a web of lies and ignorance, and she wanted nothing to do with it.

“Listen to yourself,” Morgana answered, swinging away. “You even believe in your own lies.”

“They’re not lies,” Merlin started, but she wasn’t going to let him continue.

“You’d never have stood by me! You hated me and _feared_ me! Every time you look at me, it’s expecting me to do something terrible — to murder your precious king, but, you know, at least I was _honest_! As soon as I could, he knew where _I_ stood! If I killed him, it would still be more honourable than stabbing him in the back like you.”

“I didn’t —”

“ _Oh, I couldn’t say, he’d chop my head off_ ,” Morgana sing-sang, mocking the warlock’s intonation. The man looked clearly offended. “Lies, lies, _lies_! **Everything** out of your mouth are lies! Arthur would never have done it, not only because he _loves_ you, but because he gave his word, he would have changed the law — he _did_ change the law — and _still_ you just… You say you love him, don’t you?”

“You know I do,” he muttered, and her grin was cruel, though not as cruel as his falsehoods. "I always have.”

“You _never_ did,” she corrected, saying what was obvious to anyone with eyes. “You _wanted_ him, sure, and _imagined_ him, but _love_ isn’t in pretending, _love_ isn’t misleading, _love_ isn’t deceiving or treating a grown man like a puppet, and if you can’t see this — well, you’re even worse than Uther.”

The words clearly wounded him, severely, but she did not care. Those were his sins, and he _should_ pay for them, as she had paid for her own.

“I’m glad he cast you away,” she continued, taunting him callously. “You’re not worth of such a man — you can’t even _believe_ in him, after all these years. He’s still infatuated, but I’ll find a cure for it — I’ll pull him out of your spell, like I pulled Vivian out of hers.”

“There’s no spell —” he tried, and she cackled.

“You want me to _believe_ that he left _Gwen_ for the likes of _you_?”

Morgana could feel the tang in the air as Merlin straightened himself up, staring at her. His eyes were burning with anger, and a rim of gold encircled the blue. She smiled, because _this_ was what was right, _this_ was what she wanted, not a pretence of penitence from a man who couldn’t even face his own errors. Morgana stood her ground even as his eyes turned full gold, the manservant gone and Emrys in his full glory confronting her.

The sky crackled with his anger, that could summon lightening from clear skies. The silver sparkle did not scare Morgana, who had been taught by the last of the High Priestesses, a High Priestess herself. The very fabric of the world might sigh at the touch of Emrys’ magic, but she wasn’t the one trying to go against nature, not this time.

“Oh, is the little sorcerer ready to play?” She mocked, and there was an undeniable threat in the deep tone of his voice.

“You have no idea what you’re messing up with, Morgana.”

“Why don’t you show me?” She asked, once again shooting fire at him.

Merlin dodged the ball with a practised ease, and it landed further in the patio, causing a load of hay to catch on fire. Neither of them noticed, though, eyes locked, in a confrontation that was years in the making.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he warned.

“Pity,” she answered, “Because I very much do.”

Morgana stepped forward, using a movement of her hand to send another fireball. The warlock gestured himself, forcing it to the ground and scorching it. A big black mark spread on the floor between them, and she could hear the thunder in spite of the lack of clouds. It didn’t scare the priestess at all, she had looked at darker abysses then Merlin’s heart. Even in wrath, he was still light and gold and the glare of the sun.

“Did you ever tell him the truth, about anything? About the poison, or about the fact that Uther _did_ use magic to conceive him?”

“Have _you_ ever told him about all times you tried to kill him? Or that you _did_ kill his father?”

She smiled at him, because, of course he wouldn’t believe so. He could never forgive her, and imagined that no one could, but there lay his weakness.

“Arthur _knows_ why I did the things I did,” the woman’s face showed no trace of regret, “And Uther’s life was not worth more than the all the lives of my people — our people — that he took away.” She sighed, power pooling around her hands and arms in a way it hadn’t in years. It was intoxicating, but it was also grounding. “What a disappointment you are after all, Emrys — the saviour of your people, they said, but you became their jailer instead.”

“My destiny was to be at Arthur’s side, protecting him,” he countered, and she laughed, a shriek of madness and bitterness.

“And who will protect him from you?” She asked, ignoring the way the wind was picking up around them.

“I’d never do anything to hurt him,” Merlin answered, the lines of his face so firm that they could cut. “Unlike you.”

She shook her head, honestly at loss at the logic behind the man’s actions.

“You lie to him and manipulate him, you hide yourself from him as if he were a monster — why would you want to protect such a person?”

“I believe in Arthur —” he started saying, but she could only cackle.

“Believe! You wouldn’t know the first thing about believing — trusting — if it hit you in the face!”

Merlin’s temper finally hit boiling point, and his control clearly slipped, eyes turning gold for a second before he managed to stop it. It was enough to bring down a lightening bolt, but Morgana had been expecting it and pushed it away with everything she got. The bolt hit one of the two towers that rose to the sides of the patio, showering it with rubble. Stone and sand spread around them, and there was a huge hole where one of the walls used to be.

It was almost natural to pull the hay in flames towards him, but naturally it didn’t do any damage, with a burst energy, he made it fly back towards her, spreading through the ground in a shower of sparks. Morgana pushed forward, using the fallen debris against him, but among wood, stone and dirt, a banner and a suit of armour had also fallen. The servant pulled the shield from it with a magical pull, catching it with a suave movement that was completely the opposite of Merlin’s every move.

In response, she pulled the sword towards herself. It was not a well-balanced weapon, but it would do its job. She changed her stance, using the weapon as means of intimidating the man, while using her other hand to continue the onslaught of rocks and pebbles. For a few moments, he did nothing but hold himself against the attack, until with a shouted spell he produced a beast made of lava, a serpentine dragon burning on his way towards her. She pushed her magic into the sword, willing it to resist before plunging it into the creature. The dragon exploded, ashes and molten lava spraying around, and Morgana _knew_ that although magic had created it, it was akin to the real thing, and would burn down the castle if it touched the stone. With a concentration so hard that it indeed brought sweat to her forehead, she froze it all in the air, summoning water and coldness from the air above and into the ground. Ice spread between their feet, increasing in quantity as Merlin joined her in freezing the lava.

What could have been cooperation was soon a fight for dominance, with snow and ice encroaching on their opponents, until Morgana could barely feel her feet, frozen, while Merlin’s legs were stuck into place. Years of fear and distrust isolated them from any possibility of peace, and they were both ready to fight to the death, until the sound of the door banging open broke into their duelling.

Morgana didn’t need to turn to know _who_ had come into the place, the shame, fear and adoration in Merlin’s face could only be directed at her brother. She stood her ground, unwilling to let him go, for Arthur would only forgive him _every_ and _anything_ , even if he didn’t deserve it. The priestess considered renewing the attack, but a voice interrupted her.

“Morgana!”

It was not her brother’s voice, but it made her stop in her tracks. The frozen waste inside her melted, for the voice was spring thaw and sweetness, peace and acceptance and love. She let the melted remains of the sword fall to the ground, and heard Merlin do the same. Suddenly, the ice that was keeping her in place turned into water, and she could look behind. Gwen was looking worried, biting her lower lip, wringing her fingers. Arthur, too, looked pale, and for a moment, she saw what they could see: the patio destroyed and the two of them almost frozen in their hatred.

For once, she was ashamed of her actions, too.

She ignored the two of them for the moment, looking once again to her opponent.

“You don’t deserve him,” she announced, because Arthur was a _good_ man, that deserved better than half-truths and secrecy.

“I know,” he agreed, and in that, at least, they were of the same mind.

Morgana gathered her damp skirts, head held high against the number of guards and courtiers who had come after Arthur and Gwen, curious about the altercation. They were not worthy of her notice and only wanted a new piece of gossip. Her eyes were focused on the woman that had brought her to a stop once again, her lifeline. Gwen’s fingers were warm as they touched Morgana’s cold skin. She took her place by Morgana’s side as they walked back inside the castle.

King Olaf was standing right in front of the door’s mantel, looking at the destroyed tower top with a horrified gaze. He looked from it to Morgana with a mix of fear and respect.

“Oh, King Olaf,” she said, her voice airy. “I fear your tower rooms will need some renovations. Maybe you could make some bedrooms in it.”

Morgana winked at the old man, who could not say a thing, and she felt Gwen struggle to contain the laughter that wanted to burst from her and for once she could believe all would be well.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819003500/in/dateposted-public/)

**Mabon Eve, 4 Years**  
 **Before**  
 **Camlann**

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612681/in/dateposted-public/)

Arthur was pretending to work on his welcome speech when Merlin burst back into his chamber. The manservant looked a bit dishevelled, as if he had run all the way from his rooms and back, and the king’s heart squeezed a bit in wondering if he had just returned to say he would be leaving in the morning or something similar. There was still shock in his eyes, and Merlin was a little out of breath.

Even through rejection, Arthur still wanted nothing as much as he wanted to kiss him, deeply, thoroughly, slowly. But there was nothing like lust in the servant’s gaze, but a firmness of purpose when he stepped inside and faced the king from the other side of his desk.

“Did you mean it?” Merlin asked, almost a challenge, and Arthur could only blink.

“What?” he asked, knowing he sounded daft.

“The kiss,” the servant clarified, his hands on his hips. “Did you mean it?”

It was not the question he was expecting, because, really, when had he left room for doubt? He _knew_ what he wanted, he _had_ known since he and Gwaine had spoken at the tavern, and his desire to kiss Merlin, to have him in his arms had been like an itch in the weeks since, one he couldn’t scratch. Arthur stopped, then, and just looked at Merlin, _really_ looked, and his determination was nothing like a man wishing to leave, but a man getting himself ready for disappointment. It made his own heart soar and lifted his spirits, he could not help but to grin at the confused man.

“You realise you kissed me first, don’t you?” Arthur asked, amused, and Merlin shook his head, coming closer, though he was still looking a bit unsure.

“You know what I mean — you kissed me back. Was it instinct or did you…?”

“I am a warrior, Merlin,” Arthur said in a teasing tone. “I always know exactly what I’m doing. If I indeed kissed you back,” he tried to sound seductive, “you should have felt in your bones _exactly_ what I meant to do.”

Merlin’s eyebrow shot up, as it often did whenever Arthur started to brag, and he came closer still, almost close enough for touching but not quite. The king could almost feel how the strain of fear left the servant’s body, leaving only the delicious pressure of desire — reactions not unlike his own. He could feel his lips tingling with anticipation, like the hearing of horns right before a tourney, all of him set to conquer, to _win_.

“Oh, really?” Merlin mocked with a grin of his own. “I don’t think you were quite that eloquent, sire.”

It was a teasing game, a challenging game, one they had played many times before, though not quite like this. Words were a form of play, a way of dancing, like the swaying of feet during a duel, the moment right before the attack, and Arthur was nothing if he wasn’t a master dueller. This time, though, even if he lost, he would be winning.

“Maybe I’ll just have to make myself clearer, then,” Arthur stepped forward, a glint in his eye, chests so close that he could feel the heat in Merlin’s body, the light tremor that came from waiting for the perfect moment, like an archer with his arrow set in place.

“I may have a better idea…”

He hadn’t been expecting Merlin’s reaction. The manservant lunged forward, catching him unaware and gripped the edge of Arthur’s shirt, pulling him closer. There was no finesse in the way he smashed their mouths together, but the intent was clear, indisputable, vocal in a way that was totally and completely _Merlin_. The king felt himself melting, his blood boiling in desire and possessiveness. It was _happening_ , really _happening_ , and he could feel Merlin’s lush lips moving against his own, pressed so hard that it was painful but oddly perfect as well. The servant’s hands were tight against the fabric of his clothes, and Arthur did the only thing he _could_ do, touching him too, running his hands over the back and neck of the other man, making him shiver, holding his head in place as he tried to take the lead of the kissing.

It wasn’t as easy as all that, Merlin wasn’t ready to relinquish his control. Still, Arthur tried, eager, keen, wild. The other man resisted, and the two were soon locked in a battle of wills, giving and taking, together, and it was not good, and yet, it was wonderful and all he had ever wanted.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529277/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Night, 1 Year Before Camlann**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

 

The opening of the door was a wakeup call for Merlin. For a moment, he could barely see, blinded by the shine of the candles and torches. Still, it gave him stop, breaking his concentration. A single drop of water slid through his arm, still freezing, but no longer ice, and he finally saw what they had done. The whole patio seemed covered by a not-so-thin layer of debris, and above the pieces that had fallen from the tower, shone a coat of ice, twinkling under the bright moon of Midsummer.

Under the mantel, he saw the delicate figure of a woman, and a shape he would have known anywhere. He couldn’t see Arthur’s face from the distance, and he didn’t want to — he couldn’t imagine what would be on his face, seeing the two of them like this. The torches behind his head made his hair glint like molten gold, a natural crown. His fingers faltered, and he wondered what he was doing.

Though he had lost his temper, there was still something left of his control, or the whole place would have been frozen. What had he been thinking? He did not really want to kill Morgana — if he _did_ , she would be dead, he knew, with no false humility. And Morgana… She hadn’t meant to kill him either, or she would have done so when he gave her the chance. No, she was angry, disappointed and wanted to hurt him, but he could understand that. He _had_ failed her and, in doing so, put Arthur and Camelot in danger. She _had_ had a good reason to come against him tonight and try and hurt him; and if she hadn’t questioned him about _Arthur_ , he would have just let her do as she will, knowing he deserved it. No, their duel was a fight of love, loyalty and pain, not of murder.

His grip on the spell that kept them both rooted in place faltered even before Gwen stepped ahead and called her name. Merlin felt in his bones how it shook the priestess, how her very presence was enough to calm the tempest he had woken inside of her heart. Like an abandoned doll, the magic freezing them in place faded away, sleet falling abandoned to the floor.

More and more people kept arriving, trying to discover the source of the commotion. They may have stopped, but it didn’t change that they _had_ brought a considerable audience along. He felt like a hare when the hunter came close, trembling and unsure of how to move. All along, Arthur’s eyes never left him, even as King Olaf, Lady Vivian and Queen Elena all walked inside as well and started to talk.

Morgana, on the other hand, had no such issue. She gathered herself back together, wearing her dignity like a cape, and refusing to even acknowledge the people who stared at her. Merlin did not have her courage, or her experience in being in such a position. Even if they _did_ disagree about many things and even if there was far too much distrust and bitterness between the two of them, _this_ was something he did admire about her. He knew that she was leaving, saying something to their host, but there was nothing in Merlin’s view but Arthur.

The king’s eyes were bearing into him like spears, their expression guarded, and not for the first time he felt his own spirit seek his for comfort and to be met only with a barrier of indifference and silence. It was as if the king were a statue, and not the man he had served and loved for a decade. Ashamed of himself, Merlin let his eyes move away, staring lifelessly at the stone walls.

Years of queenship had honed Elena's voice into a weapon of control, one that vibrated through the evening air.

"There's nothing to see here. Move along."

"But..." Olaf seemed to finally wake up from the daze of Morgana's passage.

"I don't think there's much we can do now," she insisted, and Merlin felt ashamed of his own lack of control that had caused such destruction.

He could not look at the Kings and Queens, he couldn't face them with his failure, but he _could_ try and solve at least a part of the problem. It took something of a concentrated effort, picturing it all together in his mind, and he felt it pulling over his muscles as he gestured upwards, stone, brick and mortar flying back through the air and seating themselves in their original place. Merlin allowed his mind to go into the wounds of the broken wood, reminding them of their natural oneness, mending the fibres. He couldn't be equally efficient with the other materials, but he did what he could, pushing them together. 

When he opened up his eyes, the tower was back in place. It would still need to be checked by a specialist, but it wouldn't have to be rebuilt. The coat of painting, though, and the marks of fire remained, in the wall as in the patio. Probably he could deal with those, too, but he felt chilled to the bone and weary, unsure of his own place.

"But..." Olaf's protest was interrupted by a hearty pat from Elena. 

"See, it's almost perfect, nothing more we can do with it."

The two of them left, and there was no one in the patio but Arthur and him. There was horror and awe in his king's face, all at once, and Merlin felt his knees buckling. They hit the floor with a sharp pain, pebbles and shards of glass hurting his legs, but a moment later there were arms supporting him, giving him strength. Warmth flooded through him, and something else, something more, something he couldn't quite name but that was everything he had wanted and longed for in the last few months.

Arthur.

"Were you trying to kill each other?" He asked, but there was no bite in his tone, just worry. 

"Just settling some old arguments," he mumbled back, and Arthur let out a bark of laughter.

"I thought you considered beating each other up a barbaric way to settle differences," he teased, and Merlin tried as hard as he could to smile, though it was hard.

"This was not beating, it was _magic_ , do try and keep up."

Arthur chuckled at the response and scooped him from the floor as if he did not weight more than a child. The king's strong presence flooded through him and he knew no more.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819259150/in/dateposted-public/)


	7. Chapter 7

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819259150/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Night, 1 Year B. C.**

 

When Merlin came back to his senses, he could think of nothing but warmth — it enveloped him, securing him, soft fabric wrapped around his body, and it was hard to open his eyes against the heated air. Even without doing it, he could feel the fireplace to his left, the flames shining behind his eyelids. The wood crept merrily, in a sort of pacific, soothing rhythm. The king’s scent invaded his nostrils, and he knew himself to be in Arthur’s bed, though there was something odd in the mattress.

The sound of a pair of boots dragging against the floor forced him to finally wake up, looking around. He didn’t recognise the place immediately, but after a few seconds, it all came back to him — the discovery, their estrangement, the saxons, the duel. Merlin sat up quickly and the world swayed around him. It was quite obvious that he wasn’t yet ready for such extravagant movements.

Arthur was sitting on the wood table that had been put in the room for his personal use. Next to his form, Merlin could see several plates filled with fruit, bread and all sorts of food. The king looked over to him from where he had been, about to bite into an apple. He gave Merlin a look of appraisal, and it was quite obvious he was not sure about what he saw.

“You should try and take it easy,” he suggested, sinking his teeth into the red fruit, and the warlock could almost taste its sweetness in the way he swallowed the juices. “You should know better than to make any abrupt movements.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said, feeling his tongue curls on itself with exhaustion. “I was just scared.”

“Come and sit here,” Arthur continued, as if he hadn’t listened at all. “Nice and slow, yeah. My sources tell me you need — food.”

“Your sources?” the manservant asked, using the bed’s pole as leverage to stand up.

“You know, _Gwen_. Or at least Morgana-through-Gwen,” he answered with a roll of eyes. “She guarantees me that what you need right now is food to replenish your energies. So, tuck in.”

Although they had shared many meals through the years, it was rare for Arthur to be so generous when it came to food, giving him first pickings of everything. Merlin didn’t feel particularly hungry — in fact, he was almost nauseous — but years of misery had taught him to never refuse food. He set down, ignoring the king who was still sitting on the table near him and starting to gather food. He felt as if he had been out for days, not only a few hours. Without wasting time with empty pleasantries, he poured soup into his bowl and drank deeply from it, ignoring the wine from which Arthur was sipping. He tore a piece out of a loaf of bread and wetted it in the soup; chewing happily.

After a few gulps, it became evident to Merlin that the nausea he felt had been mostly because of how _hungry_ he was. Without thinking, he started picking up a bit of everything — a bird’s leg, some sour grapes, soft brown bread, a bit of a pie… Arthur’s low chuckle stopped him short.

“What?” he asked, fighting against the urge to lick his fingers free of grease and using the napkin instead.

“Oh, now I know how you could eat _so much_ without ever putting on weight even though you did very little physical exercise…”

“Very little?” Merlin squeaked, indignant. “Do you have any idea how much strain it is, all those serving chores —”

“Wouldn’t make a dent on this amount of food,” Arthur gestured towards the left overs on the plate. “It was the magic, wasn’t it?”

“The magic?” Merlin repeated, not sure Arthur was really broaching the subject. “I suppose…”

“It does answer one of my many questions, at least,” the king looked pensive, and guilt welled inside Merlin as always.

“I suppose you have many,” he mumbled, unsure of how to act.

“You could say that,” Arthur sounded mild, but the way he stood up and leaned on the table was far too studied to fool Merlin. “I have had a long time to think on questions these last few weeks.”

He couldn’t have stopped himself from flinching if he tried. The king frowned at his gesture, but didn’t comment on it. Silence stretched for a long time, uncomfortable and heavy, almost smothering. The heat of the air went from pleasant to suffocating while seconds went by in silence. Still, Merlin couldn’t find the courage to break it, didn’t know what words he could possibly say to make things right — how could he ever make things right? Arthur let out an impatient sigh, and he flinched again.

“Sorry — sorry,” he repeated, while the king looked at him as if he couldn’t truly understand why he was apologising. “I am trying only… It is hard, for me, to talk—”

“Now, that is a new one,” there was clear mocking in the king’s tone. “You have _never_ had any problem with talking, more like to have an issue with shutting up.”

“You know what I mean — it’s hard for me to talk about it.”

“It?” Arthur prodded, arms crossed against his chest.

“Magic,” Merlin whispered, afraid that the vibrations of the sound would break the peace that they had kept until then. Arthur only looked firmly at him, waiting, and words started coming out. “I didn’t — I never thought the day would come when I would be able to just talk about it with you. I mean, I dreamed of the change of the law from the moment I first came to Camelot, and I was glad to see it go, but it still didn’t feel — it still doesn’t feel — like it is real. It feels like an illusion, and I couldn’t — I can’t… Believe me, I tried to live without using magic, I tried to deny it, but I — _magic_ was just…”

“Stop — you can’t just blame magic on this. This is not about magic.”

“Of course it is about magic!”

“No — heavens, you’re an idiot. It’s not — do you know how many times I suspected? Over the years? There were so many close calls, and you went _weird_ and a few times I was absolutely sure, but you’d always… There was some times… Do you remember when the Dorocha attacked?”

“How could I forget?”

“They all said… No living man can survive it… And yet, you _did_. I was glad — overwhelmingly glad — that you did, but it stuck in my head… I wouldn’t say anything, you had been in a pretty bad shape, but…. It was supposedly impossible. You were always full of impossible, from the very first day. Then… Then Lancelot sacrificed himself, and you were grieving so deeply, and I thought I should wait before I said something,” Arthur took a deep breath, clearly trying to figure out how to continue, and Merlin was more than a bit overwhelmed.

“You never said anything.”

“I thought…” Arthur shuddered with his sigh. “Later, when my father was — I thought you wouldn’t have let him die, if you could stop it. So, I had to be wrong. You might hate him, but you wouldn’t let me —”

“No, you’re right,” Merlin nodded. “And I did — I did try.”

“I know,” the king mumbled, tired. “You were the old man, weren’t you? I don’t know how you did it… But your eyes… You can’t really hide them.”

“I did my best, but… There were other things…”

“Morgana. You can say it. It’s complicated, and while I can’t say I understand what made her — I can forgive it. I have,” the blond man shook his head, dazed. “When I decided to take her back… I put it all behind us, in a way. She had to pay for her actions, but that was _justice_ , it was not about Morgana and I, personally.”

Merlin nodded, he had known that. It didn’t always make him feel comfortable, but it was one of those things that were inevitable when someone had a heart as big as Arthur’s.

“I wanted to tell you —” he confessed, his heart aching with the weight of past mistakes. “I wanted the tell you so many times…”

“Then why didn’t you?” The king asked, his voice tired, knowing that this was an argument they would still have a number of times.

“I thought… I was afraid that…”

“What? That I’d chop your head off, after having changed the law?”

“No —” Merlin shook his head, though he wasn’t _sure_ that he hadn’t feared just that, not for the crime of magic, but for the terrible betrayal of years lying. “But by then, it had been so long, and I couldn’t… I didn’t know how to…”

“It should have been you —” Arthur breathed out, in a puff of frustration. “It could have been _you_ that made me change it. I would have done it, for you,” his baby blue eyes drilled into Merlin’s face, so earnest that it was painful. “You must have known that.”

“I — I was not sure,” Merlin bit his lip, looking away from the power of Arthur’s emotions. “And I didn’t want to put you in that position.”

“ _That_ is what worried you?” Arthur was, naturally, disbelieving of such answer. “So many times, you’ve put me in uncomfortable positions, challenged my beliefs, made me go against what I had been taught, then why…”

“Because it would have been about _me_ , not about what was _right_ ,” Merlin corrected, knowing it may not be enough to forgive his actions. “I wanted you to _understand_ that Magic could be a force for good, not that you believed _I_ could be trusted with it. It was not about _me_.”

The king nodded, seeing the sense in his words, even if he still couldn’t agree with the warlocks’ actions.

“You act as if _magic_ was such a big deal, but this doesn’t _change_ anything,” the King pointed out. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you, and it doesn’t change who you are — it also doesn’t change that you lied to me, even when you didn’t have to. You had so many chances, so many moments you could have — I trusted you with my life, with my heart, but you couldn’t trust me with your secret.”

The truth of the words was like a layer of lead over Merlin’s heart, like an ocean keeping them apart. There was nothing he could say to justify his actions, there was nothing he could say that would make it different. For a split second he wondered if he could twist time, go back to those early days, tell Arthur the truth — but, no. Arthur was saying this _now_ with the benefit of hindsight, it didn’t mean that _this_ was what would have really happened and, even if his magic _could_ pull on such a miracle, there was a good chance that he would be sacrificing too many moments, precious memories that they had.

No, for all his folly, he would not sacrifice what they had had, even if the future meant nothing but being tortured by the memories of what they had once been.

“I have nothing to say for myself — save that you’re a better man that I am, and I’ve always known that, but you go even beyond that. If you want me to leave —”

“Leave?” Arthur’s voice was vibrating with surprise. “Why… Why would I want that?”

Merlin shrugged. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what was really going on through the king’s head.

“You _idiot_ ,” the king exclaimed, coming closer. “Were you really waiting for me to send you away? Did you think I…”

“I lied to you, I betrayed your trust —”

“You’d be hard-pressed to find someone in my life who hasn’t — my father, my sister, Gwen — if I didn’t forgive them all, I’d be pretty alone,” the King moved ahead, closing in on Merlin. “And I may be a foolish weakling that just keeps taking everyone back in, but if the other option is being without you…”

There were no other words from Arthur’s mouth, just his hand curling around Merlin’s neckerchief before he pulled the manservant closer, a perfect mirror of their first true kiss, and the warlock had but a moment to wonder if he was dreaming before their mouths touched each other.

If someone asked him if Arthur’s lips were still the same, he wouldn’t have been able to answer — he could not think, could not breathe, could not _feel_ because inside him, the whole world had just _come alive_ under Arthur’s touch. After weeks and weeks of solitude and silent echoes inside his mind, the king was _there_ , the texture and taste of his consciousnesses sliding against Merlin’s in a symphony that brought a relief to his soul that he didn’t even realise it needed. The warlock could now _feel_ everything the king felt, the _longing_ , the _want_ , the _love_ and the _pain_. Tears pressed against his closed eyelids, because he couldn’t _believe_ just how much he had missed this.

Merlin’s arms wrapped around Arthur’s larger frame without him even realising, he could barely understand, now, the difference between the two of them — he was kissing and being kissed, moving in both directions at once, two hearts beating wildly and yet in sync, a perfect, unique harmony that was theirs alone. He breathed Arthur in, and breathed Arthur out, mind, body and soul connected, open, sharing it all, his magic spreading out to envelop the king and, as he gasped, Merlin knew that Arthur could feel it, truly feel his magic running around the king’s body, deep into his veins as they did in Merlin’s — Arthur’s as much as it were Merlin’s, for Merlin had been born to protect him, to serve him, to love him.

“Merlin!” Arthur gasped against his lips, and the warlock could only whisper back.

“Shh,” he said, taking out the sting of his magic with another kiss. “It’s alright”

And as Arthur picked him up from the floor and carried him back to the bed as if he were a bride, Merlin knew there was no other place for him in the world but in Arthur’s arms.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529617/in/dateposted-public/)

**Mabon Eve, 4 Years B. C.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612681/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Arthur might have wondered, dreamed, imagined what it would be like to have Merlin for himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. The other man was like some sort of drug, he just couldn't get enough of kissing him, moist soft lips pressing against his own. Their bodies were flushed together, and he could feel the way Merlin's chest trembled as he tried to suck air in without breaking their kiss.

The king himself had been rendered breathless by the touch. It was almost impossible that his body had not shut down in response to the feeling of Merlin between his arms. They just fit, like pieces of a puzzle, roughly the same size. Merlin's longer hands ran through the king's nape, making him shiver, the long fingers tangling in the royal's golden strands as he pulled them into a deeper kiss and Arthur was left feeling acutely aware that he didn't know what to do. 

Eagerly, he caressed the length of the manservant's back, until he reached the neckerchief. How many times had he wondered why Merlin loved it so, or envied the closeness it held to his neck? With deft fingers, Arthur untied it, letting it fall to the floor, sliding his mouth down to hungrily explore the skin it had revealed. 

Merlin let out a low moan that shook Arthur to the core. To know that he could affect him this was dizzying, he could not have stopped if he tried. Finally knowing what it was like to touch Merlin like that, after weeks of longing, made him sure he did not want to stop any time soon.

The manservant's grip grew even stronger, though his hands wouldn't stop moving, drawing patterns of fire under Arthur's sensitive skin, pushing away the fabric of his white shirt, breaking away only to pull it out of his body. Merlin stopped, then, and just _looked_. Arthur couldn't even begin to guess how many times the other man had seen him like this before, or even fully naked, but it had been nothing like _this_. Although it made him feel, almost for the first time in his life, self-conscious about how he looked, the unveiled _want_ in Merlin's eye put him at ease again. The king thought that the look alone could have made him grow hard, but as things stood, he was already almost unbearably hard, and it was almost without thinking that he dropped his hand and untied the laces keeping his trousers tight; in an attempt of taking some of the pressure off is body.

This elicited a deep moan from Merlin, almost a growl, possessive and demanding as the manservant stepped forward and grabbed him again, kissing him fiercely as he drove them both backwards until they reached the bed and fell on top of it.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819003660/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Night, 1 Year B. C.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

 

It was something that they had done countless times before, and yet, it was still completely different. Merlin could still remember their very first time together, and now, it was clear that Arthur would not let him take the lead. Once, the king had been almost virginal, but they had come very far from it, and he laid Merlin down on the mattress like a man who knew what he wanted — and would have it.

For the first time ever, Merlin knew he could simply let it go. They had made love before, of course, and it had been intense, memorable, pleasurable, but _this_ time, it was different. It had never mattered how horny he was, or how deeply his heart was involved, he knew he had never truly _let go_ and enjoyed it. Always a part of him had to remain in control, separate, alien from his feelings, focused only in keeping his magic in check. Sometimes, many times, Arthur would come close to exposing him through the sheer ardour they had shared, but in the last moment, Merlin would hold tight to it. Never he allowed his eyes to be open in the throws of lovemaking, lest Arthur saw the golden glint that shone in it.

He had missed so much in trying to keep Arthur out, trying to pretend they were not two parts of a whole, two sides of the same coin. How selfish he had been, sharing all of the king’s emotions while keeping his own in check, under a lid, as if there was something in him that did not belong to Arthur. Raising himself in his elbows and coming in for a deep kiss, Merlin allowed himself to fully relax, to _reach_ for the king with his body, mind and magic for the first time.

Arthur gasped under him, and the warlock swallowed the air and the surprise, holding as tight as he could, unable to imagine letting go, but the other man forced them apart and sat back on the bed, Merlin’s arms still around his neck.

“Is this… you?” The king asked, shocked, and Merlin made a point of looking deep into his eyes before he answered — not with words, but with his magic, nudging him forward so he would be close enough to kiss, not bothering with hiding the gold in his eyes. Arthur watched it in awe and groaned, coming even closer. Merlin leaned forward, trying to kiss him, but the king stopped him short, tilting his head. “Don’t — Don’t hide yourself from me. There’s nothing in you I want to be different, nothing I would change. You just have to trust me.”

They were so close that, as Arthur spoke, the warlock could feel the words as well as hear them. The truth of them were also in the texture of the king’s thoughts, in the heartbeat that seemed to echo with his own. One by one, Merlin felt his doubts fall away as all of him explored all of Arthur, seeing the truth that his own fear had hidden for so long reflected in baby blue eyes. The king cupped his face and kissed him again, a request and a promise, one that Merlin was more than eager to accept.

With nothing to hide, he knew himself to be naked, and it made no sense to have anything between them. It was a simple enough matter, to wish the clothes away and they were gone, leaving them skin on skin, and Arthur grinned.

“Now, that is handy,” he muttered, and Merlin chuckled. “I can’t believe you have hold this out on me.”

“You gotta put _some_ work into something,” he answered with a peck, while Arthur moved down to rub his face against Merlin’s neck.

“Oh, confess — you just love to watch me strip down for you,” the king teased, and laughter bubbled up from the warlock.

“I do,” he answered. “I do love — you.”

They had never had had the need to put things in words; they had always _shown_ their feelings in other ways. Neither could say they had a gift with words, which made them even more impactful when finally said out loud. Arthur just stared at him for a moment, and Merlin felt his stomach in knots — maybe he shouldn’t have said it, maybe Arthur didn’t — but, no, he could feel in the king’s heart the love that he himself felt, something that had never needed a name. Arthur’s eyes were burning with emotion as he pushed his forehead against Merlin’s, their noses touching.

“I want you,” he whispered, and even their shared emotions could not have prepared Merlin for it. The idea was very clear in the king’s head, one that made him blush and tremble. It would not be the first time, even between them, it was not the _act_ itself, but the intention behind it that made him tremble.

“Will you have me?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” Merlin answered, and there was no way he could stop kissing this man.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529617/in/dateposted-public/)

**Mabon Eve, 4 Years B. C.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612681/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Merlin kept on the same intensity as their lips met again, kissing turned into biting as the manservant tried to taste him with teeth instead of tongue, sucking on Arthur’s neck as if his life depended on it.

Standing up, Merlin lowered his hands to hold the rim of the king’s clothes, a question in his eyes that was answered at once. Even the way Merlin’s fingers scrapped against his hard cock was enough to make him see stars. It could not be fair that such a light touch would bring him so close to losing his mind. The smile on Merlin’s face made it all worth it, though, and once again the king felt himself drowning in blue happiness. He pulled Merlin close, diving in for a kiss and bringing their bodies together once again.

Merlin’s kiss was a promise, one he meant to fulfil as he kissed down, going over the muscular shoulder blades, to the light hair on his chest, and down to his belly. Merlin’s lips were accompanied by a tongue that swirled around the planes and curves of Arthur’s body as he worked in undressing the other man. There was so little he could do but to rub his hands on Merlin’s head and arms, though it paled when considering the sheer intensity of the manservant’s caresses.

Arthur grasped the other man’s clothing, forcing him to slip out of it as he moved even lower, kissing the inside of his thighs. The king could only gasp at the sensations it evoked, wondering how he could ever survive such treatment. He cupped the back of Merlin’s head, trying to pull him back up, but the man was firm, nuzzling his cock and making him tremble. Arthur let go of him, and Merlin came back up, his hands wrapped around the curve of Arthur’s ass, filling it completely, raising it a bit from the mattress.

The two men looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed, out of breath and out of depth, trembling with a desire they couldn’t even figure out how to explore. Arthur decided it was more than time for him to _act_ , and slid his hand up Merlin’s still covered thighs, as he drank in the sight of the other man shirtless. Unlike Arthur, Merlin had never felt comfortable without his clothes on, and there hadn’t been many opportunities for Arthur to see it. The milky skin was marked by red blotches where he had explored, and there was some dark hair sprinkled around the chest, almost fading before reappearing in an inviting line that followed, lower and lower, down into his dark trousers. The king allowed his hand to move up, covering and holding the other man’s cock, and Merlin whimpered.

The sound was enough to open the gates of his desire, and he rushed in, pulling the cloth down and touching real skin. He had not had much experience with men, save for adolescent fumblings when trying to figure out how it all worked. Arthur had always liked the feeling of having a cock in his hand, the weight and firmness of it, but there was something particularly amazing in it being Merlin’s, something _more_ in the silken skin that he never wanted to stop touching. He moved his hand up and down and watched the way the servant’s head fell backwards in pleasure. There was no way to stop himself from leaning in, licking up Merlin’s throat, rubbing his head against the beginnings of a stubble, chasing the lips that had haunted his dreams.

Merlin came closer to him, the two of them facing each other in bed, the servant’s legs thrown over Arthur’s as he scooted closer and repeated the king’s movements. It was so hard to speak, to think, to consider what was happening when it felt like his mind was frozen from pleasure, Merlin’s fingers and hand around Arthur’s body while Merlin’s own body was held fast by his firm hands, and the king was sobbing with bliss.

But it was not enough, it would never be enough — he wanted more, he wanted to feel it with all of himself, _Merlin_ , and _him_. Feeling was good, but he wanted to taste, to hear, to _breathe_ the other man. He used his free arm to embrace the manservant, keeping him close and kissing him as deeply as he could.

“Will you have me?” Merlin asked, his voice unsure, insecure, and Arthur wanted to squeeze him even harder, make sure he would never come to any harm.

“I will,” he answered, kissing him deeply and down, until there was nothing else in the world.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819003660/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Night, 1 Year B. C.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Merlin didn’t even know how he could do it, but he would have never have said no to Arthur’s wishes. He worked as slowly as he could, making sure they were both ready, feeling the warmth of the fire that burnt in the room, his hands and breaths deeply in sync. Each touch almost made him come apart, the feeling of their skin sliding together starting thousands of sparks that burnt as bright as stars as they kissed on. Sweat made them slick, but the taste of salt made sure it was all real, not just a dream.

Not even in his dreams it had been like this — the king answering to his every movement at once, body and mind and heart. There were no barriers at all between them, and after so many weeks without a sense of Arthur, it was all the more intoxicating to have so much. He could drown in a sea of the king’s emotions, knowing at last that _nothing_ had stood between them, only his own fear that had created every barrier between them, including the one that had kept him from sharing the king’s emotions in the last season.

Merlin caressed the body in front of him, hands coming down and fondling torso and abs, hips and legs. He buried his face on Arthur’s chest, smelling him, feeling the hairs tickling his face, kissing softly the cherry red and rock-hard nipples. His fingers moved down, squeezing thighs and buttocks while he bit the king’s lower lips. He soothed the bite away with his tongue as his fingertips slipped closer down to start opening way for him.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/29690529617/in/dateposted-public/)

**Mabon Eve, 4 Years B. C.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612681/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Arthur would be lying if he said he knew what to do, but it didn’t matter. He laid Merlin down, kissing him everywhere he could reach, hands brushing up and down, smoothing skin and venturing through cracks, the king explored Merlin’s body as if it were uncharted land. For every angle there was a kiss, a touch, a look, until there was nothing left to uncover.

Merlin might be foreign territory, but it was one he intended to claim for himself through caresses and kisses. He grazed over the manservant’s back as they re-positioned themselves on the bed, looking for the best form to proceed. For all his dreams of Merlin, he had never wondered about the logistics of it, and it showed in the way he fumbled in trying to get the other man ready for him.

Not that there was any complaint from Merlin, who was more than enthusiastic with helping, and just as graceful as always — that is to say, not at all. Arthur tried to hold the other man’s leg at a certain angle, but it slipped from his fingers as he moved forward, and there was a definite flinch when he first tried to get in.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said, moving backwards, but Merlin pulled him back close.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, pushing back with his hips. “Just… Come.”

The king needed no more encouraging than that, and he pushed in as slowly as he could, almost loosing himself in the wonder that was having Merlin _there_ , all around him, their breaths mingling as he moved painstakingly slow until he was fully seated. He saw Merlin puff and his eyelids fluttered before he closed his eyes, kissing Arthur, urging him to move with hands and hips, and, really, he was thrilled to comply.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819003660/in/dateposted-public/)

**Midsummer Night, 1 Year B. C.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/44629612811/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Sometimes, Merlin knew, known words and concepts were not enough to describe reality. He, at least, didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling — _perfect_ didn’t seem like enough, far too bland for the euphoria that spread through him as he pulled Arthur back into sitting. The two of them were facing each other, Arthur’s legs over his own, locked in a kiss that seemed like an expansion of what they felt.

He was _full_ and _filled_ with Arthur, with himself, with what they shared. The physicality of it was but a part of the whole, one aspect of how deeply the two of them had met, melded, melted into each other. He could almost loose himself in it but for the throb of his unspent cock, demanding that he remembered there was more to him than heart and magic, that he, too, was a man with very mundane lusts.

Merlin embraced Arthur close, the king snuggled in his lap. He took a deep breath, smelling the scent of his hair, and kissed him softly on the cheek before he started moving his hands down, asking for more. Arthur, as always, was more than ready to give way to him, to give in, moaning in Merlin’s ear with abandon. The king kissed him again, out of breath, ready for more, and the warlock was struck anew with the wonder that it was having such a man in his arms.

Arthur moved, aligning his body with Merlin’s, and then he was sitting down, sinking in Merlin, and he could not _breathe_ , could not _think_ , could not _endure_ the feelings spreading through him. As a reflex, he shut his eyes firmly, praying for some nameless thing to give him strength to continue.

“Open your eyes.”

It was an order, there was no doubt about it, and he had no reason to hide himself anymore. He wondered for a second if his eyes were golden rimmed, but he discarded the preoccupation as soon as Arthur started moving — their bodies entangled, their eyes locked, their hearts beating as one. Merlin knew he was falling, deep into an abyss, but not one he wanted to avoid. He was _lost_ , man and wizard, king and warlock, it was like light going through a crystal, reflecting everywhere, and the brilliance was _him_ and it was _in him_.

Time and space lost meaning, outside, inside, it did not matter. All that _mattered_ was Arthur and him, lips touching, arms around one another, moving together, feeling together, all barriers down and all secrets shared, because _nothing_ could stand between them — because there was no them, they were _one_ , made for each other from the beginning of time, absolute in their unity, and nothing could ever compare.

Emotion and touch, joined, made him come apart, shuddering while the king gasped, or was it Arthur who shuddered while he gasped? It did not matter. They were together at last.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819259150/in/dateposted-public/)


	8. Epilogue

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/42819259150/in/dateposted-public/)

**The Day After Midsummer, 1 Year**  
 **Before**  
 **Camlann**

 

The light of the sun was bright when it crossed the windows, invading their retreat. It danced around Arthur’s skin, making it glow as if it were touched by Merlin’s magic, but the king’s existence was too big a miracle for him to perform. His eyes were mere slits, divided between the lure of Morpheus’ arms and the seduction of the blond man’s lines. Where the sun reached his hair, fire spread, keeping the warlock warm and safe.

He had not imagined that he would be allowed such bliss again, but it still felt like home. Arthur was home, whatever he was. The curves of his shoulder and the planes of his back, the tracing of his lips against Merlin’s shoulder, his breath producing goosebumps from pale flesh. A small, soft kiss touched the manservant’s body and he shuddered in a pleasure that went way beyond desire. Waking up, Arthur’s mind wrapped around his like warm gloves in a winter day, as blue eyes gazed at him.

Merlin could have lost himself in that look, diving ever further down until his name was no more than an idea, but the rough feeling of a warrior’s skin against his anchored his soul. The warlock leaned in, lips seeking lips in a touch that was more than divine. How could he ever have taken such thing for granted? How did he ever go a single day without it?

Their kissed deepened, ignoring the obvious tang of morning breath. What a little thing it was when compared to the way their bodies tingled, vibrated, yelled for each other, trembling with yearning that was not mere lust. Merlin closed his eyes, allowing the king to fill him up from the inside, their hearts welling, embracing, melting.

A knock on the door interrupted their moment, and Merlin could barely gather his thoughts before the King’s voice rang.

“Enter.”

For once, there was no acting on his part, no pretence that Merlin had been anywhere but right under the king’s naked body. Arthur was sitting, the sheets pooling on his lap as his only garment, not at all self-conscious of his figure. The door was opened up by George, who curtsied before even looking inside, and then spluttered when his eyes saw Merlin sprawled on the royal bed.

“My lord!” George said, blushing and looking anywhere but at them. “Sir Leon has arrived, my Lord. He requests an audience with you and the other monarchs as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, George,” Arthur said, standing up, naked as in when he was born against George’s pale shame. “Make sure to warn King Olaf and Queen Elena of his request.”

“Yes, sire,” George bowed and stepped out, while Merlin chuckled.

“You shouldn’t tease him,” he said, his eyes raking over Arthur’s exposed body. He felt a pulse of want in his lower belly that made part of him twitch, and the king followed the movement with eager eyes. Nothing got past him.

“It’s not teasing,” Arthur answered, but it was clear in his look that the servant was the furthest thing from his mind. “Your look, though…”

“What about it?” Merlin prompted as Arthur prowled ever closer. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

“I’ll show you what’s wrong,” the king answered, before lowering himself back down, capturing Merlin’s lips with his own.

The two of them knew they would be late for the requested meeting, but, at that moment, Merlin found it very hard to care. All of his senses were filled with Arthur and there was no space in his mind for anything else.

When they arrived at the throne room, all other rulers were already assembled. Olaf looked mildly offended at their lateness, but Morgana winked towards them from where she was speaking to Vivian, and Elena chuckled. All Arthur did was touch his wrist lightly, but it felt as much of a declaration as if he had been dipped down in a full kiss.

Arthur took his place in the dais, Merlin faithfully by his side, the one place he would always belong, no matter what. At his appearance, the other sovereigns took their seats, and court session was declared open. Leon looked exhausted but happy as he stepped forward, bringing a scroll in his hand.

“My lords, my ladies,” he said, his eyes scanning through the people on the platform, landing finally on Morgana with a glow. “I come bringing good news.”

“Are the Saxons gone?” Elena said, though that was but a faint, baseless hope.

“Alas, not as good as all that,” the knight replied. “They are still arriving, in their boats bearing fighting men and warlords ready to conquer land.”

“How is that good news?” Olaf demanded, and Merlin wondered how he hadn’t learnt more patience in all years ruling Dyfed.

“The good news come from our negotiations,” clarified Leon. “Kings Odin and Rodor have agreed to meet with your majesties and Queen Annis, this coming Lughnasad, in the ruins of Aqua Sulis, to create a plan to expel the Saxons once and for all from our land.”

The news was met with applause, Merlin himself clapping the hardest of all. With all the kings in a single league, there was no way the Saxons would win. The king glanced towards him, a smile on his face, so open and trusting that Merlin _knew_ he would do whatever it took to keep him safe and sound.

“That is indeed great news, Sir Leon,” he offered, to the nods of the other nobles around. “Sit. Rest. Celebrate a job well done. Later we will discuss details but, for now, let’s commemorate what we have achieved,” Arthur clapped his hands, prompting all servants around to fill up the cups of those they served. “A toast — to the future of Albion!”

“To the future of Albion,” they all echoed, and drank deeply from their cups, their hearts filled with hope.

Ignoring the feast in the main hall, Arthur slipped his hand into Merlin’s bony one, and walked away from them all, leading the servant upwards through the stairs until they stood on the battlements of the castle, staring at the valley bellow, where three kingdoms met. Their fingers intertwined, they looked down and forward, at the future that would inevitably come.

“Do you think we can win?” Arthur asked, looking Merlin straight in the eyes, though his voice betrayed no hint of worry. Live or die, Arthur was ready to fight for his people, and Merlin would never step away from him again.

“I’m sure we can,” Merlin reassured him, smiling to the man that he knew he would follow into the pits of hell if he needed to.

“Good,” Arthur answered, looking away again. “It would be terrible if we went through all this only to lose each other again.”

“Not going to happen,” the servant answered, squeezing Arthur hand, and the king did not look back, but there was a hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth.

“No, I guess not,” he agreed, leaning sideways so that their bodies touched.

For all clouds that gathered in the horizon, for once, Merlin didn’t fear the future or long for it: the present was perfect enough as it was, and whatever came, it would come regardless of his worrying. He looked at the soft shapes amassing and dismissed them, the sun and the brightness in Arthur’s spirit would force it all away. Finally, they were side by side and together, no secrets between them. After all the years, they were, truly, open to each other, comforting each other, sustaining each other, two halves of a whole made stronger by their joint presence and, whatever was looming just out of the reach of their sight, would have to face the force of their joint souls. Nothing could have stood between them and their goal, together, the Once and Future King and Emrys, Merlin and Arthur were pretty much invincible. The bond between them would hold and keep them against whatever challenges lay ahead, and with the strength of the biggest armies in the five kingdoms behind them, they would bring Albion to unity, to order, to peace.

What could possibly go wrong?

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/142387845@N02/43719995295/in/dateposted-public/)


End file.
